


no one's ever gonna hurt you, love (I'm gonna give you all of my love)

by pandizzy



Series: Quints au. [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Jon and Sansa are married, Jon and the Starks Are Not Related, Wildling Jon Snow, multiple pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-01-14 18:01:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18481480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandizzy/pseuds/pandizzy
Summary: Who ever said having quintuplets would be easy?





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> this is a self indugent fanfic that I have been thinking about for quite some time now. dont feel the need to read if you dont want to.
> 
> title is from the song rockabye

The car slows down to a stop, crushing tiny white pebbles beneath its massive weight. Sansa grabs her door handle, straining her fingers in stress as she looks out of the window and sees the sterile building by her side. _Women’s Clinic of King’s Landing._

Jon takes her hand, caressing her knuckles with his thumb.

“Are you nervous?” he asks, looking at her with an intensity behind his eyes.

“A little,” she admits, smiling, “Are you?”

Jon smiles. Sansa likes to see him smiling, just because it's such a rare treat. Her husband is prone to melancholic waves and pouts that take days to kiss away. It's a wonder that cheerful and lively Sansa Stark even got attracted to him, let alone get married.

“No,” he says, “I know everything will be okay.”

He is so calm and collected. Sansa envies him. She is high maintenance, caring so much about everything and getting stressed as easy as one can breath. It’s how she survives, anxiety letting her be prepared for everything. Sansa is never late, for she wakes up in the middle of the night worried that she overslept; she has never been in a car crash, driving safely as she does. Except it was not an easy lifestyle, not really, and she wanted to be more relaxed, if only to enjoy the little things more. _Like this_ , she thinks, _the first ultrasound._

“Six tests came back positive, as did the blood exam,” she murmurs, “So there is definitely someone here.” Sansa takes his hand and pressed it against her stomach. Jon has a big hand, bigger than hers, and his long fingers take almost the entire side of her lower stomach, touching her and the baby at the same time. Or babies.

“How many eggs did we put in there?” he asks, not looking at her. “Four?”

Sansa doesn't like to remember those horrible months of trying IVFs. Shots every day, her mom’s _entire_ prayer group knowing about it and the excruciating fear that despite their odds and desire, it wouldn't work and they would be left childless. Again.

“Three.”

“How many do you want?” he asks, caressing her belly. “One? Two? Three?”

Sansa sighs, letting everything loose. It's easier being honest around Jon, because she knows he would never judge her or make fun of her.

“I’d be disappointed if we only had one,” she admits, guilty, “Because of all the money that we spent to form those three embryos, but I'd be happy with him or her.”

Jon raises his head and kisses her lips, touching their foreheads together. It's too early for her to feel the movements of their children but a sated feeling pools in her belly, a happy and joyful warmth.

“We need to get in now,” he whispers, his warm and minty breath hitting her face.

“I know,” Sansa says.

Jon opens his door and she leaves the car, feeling the fresh air and flowery smell reach her. The clinic is a tall building, with white walls and giant double doors. Sansa takes Jon’s hand and sees that he is sweating as profusely as she is. So he's nervous. She leans into him and they enter together.

A rush of cold air hits them as soon as they enter. The walls are painted in a babyish blue, with a wooden floor and floor-to-ceiling windows. A few women in various stages of pregnancy raise their eyes to look at them, their eyes seemingly focusing on Sansa’s flat stomach.

“Why don't you talk to the receptionist?” she says, turning to Jon, “I’ll sit over there.”

“Okay,” he answers, smiling, “It's a hot day, love. You should drink some water.” Jon has always been protective, but he seemed to become even more once she told him about the pregnancy. Sansa isn't afraid that it will become annoying, for he knows certain boundaries.

“Alright,” says Sansa.

She drinks some cold water and sits down in one of the more comfortable looking chairs, looking around. There is a teenager taking selfies while caressing her swollen belly, two young women smiling happily at each other and another woman that appears to be her age talking to a man sitting by her side. The magazines at the center table all seem boring so Sansa ignores them.

Jon talks to the receptionist for longer than what she deemed necessary, but he approaches her after a few minutes, holding a clipboard in one hand and a couple of brochures on the other.

“You need to fill this out,” Jon says, handing her the clipboard, “Doctor Tarly will see us soon.”

Sansa takes the form, but she doesn’t write anything. She is distracted by Jon’s brochures, watching his focused expression. “What are you reading?”

“A pamphlet,” he murmurs but shows her the paper cover. _Home Birth Explained by Val Wild._

“Why are you reading this? We might have multiples.”

“It’s educational.” He shrugs.

Sansa frowns and returns her eyes to the forms. She answers the questions in silence, carefully reading every question so as to not miss anything. Time seems to pass slowly, every tick of the clock is a small victory and as women come and go, Sansa feels her anxiety growing.

 _The babies won’t have a heartbeat,_ a wicked voice whispers in her ear, _You’re fooling yourself if you think you can ever be a mother._

“Mrs. Snow?” a feminine voice calls and Sansa raises her head, seeing the familiar face of doctor Melessa Tarly, the kind medic who accompanied them throughout their infertility journey. “Come on.”

Jon and her follow the doctor into her office, holding hands. Her husband looks at her with an adoring expression on his features, a shy smile taking his lips, and Sansa knows that she must look the same, happier than she has been in a very long time.

“How have you been, Sansa?” doctor Tarly asks as soon as they enter the warmth of her office and sit in front of her desk. “Excited, I imagine.”

Sansa laughs, “Nervous, mostly. It’s difficult to imagine that it worked.”

Doctor Tarly brushes her brown hair back, frowning slightly. She is wearing a white coat and a pretty floral dress underneath. There are a few laughing wrinkles in her eyes and mouth, but she is still very beautiful and the glow on her face only seemed to enhance that beauty. A silver ring rests on her left hand.

“I understand,” she says, “Five years, huh?”

“Yes,” Jon answers, “Long five years.”

Sansa smiles sadly, “I’m curious about how many embryos implanted. Will we have one baby or twins?”

Doctor Tarly smiles, “I’m sure you are but there are a few things that we must do first.”

Sansa is weighted, examined and prodded. Doctor Tarly checks her blood pressure, asks about morning sickness and cravings, warns about alcohol, sushi and lack of exercise and writes her a prescription for prenatal vitamins. Jon holds her hand the entire time, caressing her fingers and kissing her skin. It feels like an eternity before it’s time for the ultrasound and Sansa is laying down on a hospital bed, her yellow shirt scrunched beneath her breasts and her jeans unbuttoned as doctor Tarly squirts a cold gel on her lower stomach.

“It’s too soon to learn the genders, but we’ll probably be able to count the sacks and see how many are in there.”

“Perfect,” Jon says, sitting by her side. They can’t see the screen, turned at the angle that it is, and the anticipation burns through her skin.

A focused expression takes doctor Tarly’s face as she moves the wand around, trying to find Sansa’s babies.

“I see one!” says doctor Tarly, her face lighting up and Sansa releases a breath that she didn’t know that she was holding, “Baby A is here and let’s find their siblings. I’ll find everyone before I measure each one and you two can see the babies, okay?”

“No problem,” answers Sansa, staring at the ceiling. She bites her lower lips and holds the impulse to touch her stomach, to feel Baby A beneath her fingertips.

“Baby B and Baby C don’t want to be left out of the party,” laughs doctor Tarly, her wand near Sansa’s left side. Triplets. A weight is lifted off her shoulders and her chest. She can breathe freely again for the first time in weeks. “Based on their size and the date that the embryos were implanted on you, I'd say that they are about six weeks o— Wait.”

Doctor Tarly moves her wand around, leaning her face closer and closer to the screen. Jon takes Sansa’s hand, a worried glint on his gray eyes, and she holds her breath.

“What's wrong?” Sansa asks and treacherous thoughts fill her mind. One or all of the babies don't have a heartbeat, the sacks are empty or anything bad that means she will lose one of them. Or perhaps all.

Doctor Tarly moves the screen, showing them the scan. Sansa doesn't know what she is seeing or what she is supposed to see. Two arrows point to a couple of sacks and cell mass, _Baby B_ and _Baby C_ written underneath. Her babies.

“Baby B and Baby C are identical twins,” says doctor Tarly, pointing to a spot in the screen, “They share a placenta. It's in its early stages, but it's clear.”

Jon frowns, “What does that mean?”

“They came from a single embryo that split into two,” she explains, “So it means that, possibly, there may be another baby in here.”

She rearranges the screen so it's facing only her and continues moving her wand around, frowning slightly. Sansa’s chin drops and a thousand thoughts twirl around her head.

 _Quadruplets?_ They can't have quadruplets, they only did three embryos because triplets are all they can handle. Sansa takes a deep breath and then releases it, trying to calm herself down. She looks at Jon and he has a shocked look on his face, eyes wide and mouth ajar. His hand tightens around hers.

“Ah, I see it,” says doctor Tarly, an unreadable expression on her face, “Baby B and Baby C are identical twins,” she turns the screen around, showing Jon and Sansa their babies. Sansa can't breathe, a weight setting on top of her chest and she turns to Jon, silently asking him. _Do you see what I see?_ , “And so are Baby D and Baby E.”

* * *

The ride back home is eerily silent. Sansa holds her phone near her face, trying to take as much information as she can in the few reports that she found on the internet, reading between the lines for anything that remained unsaid. Jon is driving, staring ahead of them with a somber expression. He rubs his beard, something he does when he is nervous and licks his chapped lips.

“We need to talk about it,” Jon says, not looking at her.

“I don’t think we do,” she answers, still reading.

Jon looks at her and sees her phone, straining against her long fingers. He frowns deeply and wrinkles form around his forehead.

“What are you reading?” he asks, taking advantage of the red light ahead to try and look over her shoulder.

“Articles about multiples and high-risk pregnancies.” She shows him the phone. “No set of quintuplets has survived in the Seven Kingdoms. Ever.”

Jon sighs and she can see the disappointment taking over his face. It’s not really as upsetting as the other times that he caught her doing this, googling things and reading pages on the internet that might upset her, but rather annoying. Sansa is doing this for them, for their babies. She needsto know.

“Sansa,” he starts, “Why do you do this? Why do you read things that will make you sad and nervous?”

“Because I need to know!” she answers.

“No, you don't,” says Jon, an angry tone to his voice, “You do this to hurt yourself. This will only make it worse, San.”

Sansa turns to look at him, her arms crossed beneath her stupid swollen and achy breasts, “What is that supposed to mean?”

Jon sighs, passing his hand over his face, and he looks ten years older, more tired and exhausted, “It's a high-risk pregnancy, love. You need to be calm and relaxed, not to exert yourself. I believe that googling the correlation between premature birth and infant death is exerting yourself.”

Sansa opens her mouth, ready to fight back, but there is no more anger left in her. As quick as her fire started, it was sniffed out. She looks at Jon and his tired face and she remembers what doctor Tarly said, how the babies weren't the only ones at risk, she was too. Would he lose them all? Not only their babies but her as well?

“I should call my dad,” she says as he maneuvers the car around their driveway, “He'll want to know about this first.”

Jon nods, but he doesn't say much else. Sansa leaves the car first and uses her set of keys to open their front door. She can hear Lady barking and scratching, excited about their arrival. Her giant dog runs out as soon as she can when Sansa opens the door, running for Jon. Daddy's girl.

Ghost is a few steps behind her, calmer but still wagging his albino tail. He sniffs her feet and licks her ankles, before following her to her room. Sansa takes her phone and lays down on her bed. She is so tired. She feels ready for a nap.

Her father’s number is on speed dial, with the number of times that she calls him, and it takes no time before it's ringing. She doesn't know what time it is on the North, but hopefully, he will be out of work or having a lunch break.

“Hello,” his gruff voice says, slightly distracted.

“Daddy?” she whispers. Sansa has not called Eddard Stark that since she was eight.

“Sansa?” her father asks, “Is that you?”

Sansa presses her face against her pillow, smelling the fresh soap smell, and Ghost jumps on the bed, nuzzling her hand for a few pets. She hugs him instead.

“Yes,” Sansa says, “Did I interrupt you?”

Her father is governor of the state of the North and a very busy man, head of the Stark family, true descendants of the old kings in the North. Sansa knows that he still has a hand in every decision involving their company, despite what he told media, and that he liked to know everything about them. Perhaps that's what made his relationship with her siblings and her better than what most fathers have.

“Yes, a little bit, but I always have time for my children. How are you? How is Jon? Is everything alright?”

“We're all good.” Sansa sighs. How can she tell him? How can she tell anyone? “Did mom tell you about how we would be trying to do IVF?”

“Yes,” her father says, “Why?”

“It worked, dad.”

There is a moment where nothing is said between them, suspended animation keeping the words trapped in her throat. Sansa curls a lock of hair around her finger.

“Well, that's good, isn't it, love?” he murmurs, “You and Jon have been trying to get pregnant for a very long time. Why do you sound so sad?”

Sansa takes a deep breath. She should just say it, quickly and without hesitation. Like taking off a band-aid. It would make everything easier.

“We put three embryos in,” she starts, “There was an eighty percent chance that we would have two or more. So, today we went to the doctor to check how they were and how many there were.” She presses her hand against her forehead, feeling it clammy and hot. “Two of the embryos split, dad. There are five babies here. We’re having quintuplets.”

Her father doesn't answer. For a second, Sansa thinks that the call has ended and she removes her phone from her ear before realizing that they are still connected to one another.

“Dad, are you still—?” she asks.

“Come home,” her father says.

“What?” Sansa can't believe what she is hearing. _Home?_  Does he mean Winterfell? But she can't return to Winterfell, not now, at least.

“Come home, my love,” he continues, “You and Jon can live in the townhouse. It will be yours, not mine. I'll find a job for you in the Heartstone Community Hospital and I’m sure your mother will have a spot for Jon in the history department at the university.”

Sansa sighs, rubbing her forehead with her hand. “Dad, we can't go back to Winterfell. Movings are stressful and I can't be stressed right now.”

“Let Jon handle that, let him handle everything.” Her father sounds so sure, so certain that it will all work it out in the end. “Come home. You are having five babies. It will be extremely difficult, you two can't do it alone. Let us help you and raise these children away from that filthy city.”

Since Sansa could remember, her father hated King’s Landing and he left his feelings very clear once she told him she would be following Jon to the capital of the country seven years before. He always asked her to return, though this time he had a reason to.

“I'll talk to Jon, okay?” she murmurs, “I’ll call you later.”

“Alright. Don't worry about your mom, I will tell her. Bye, love.”

Sansa sighs, relieved. At least she won't have to deal with her mother's mental breakdown that would surely follow such news.

“Thanks, dad. Bye. I love you.”

“I love you too.” And he ends the call.

Ghost licks her face and she hugs him tighter, feeling his shaggy fur against her skin. How will they move with the dogs? Lady hates traveling, doesn't matter if it's a plane or car, and Ghost tends to take up too much space. And they can't well leave them behind.

The door creaks open and Lady runs in, jumping on the bed with her squeaky toy between her teeth. Jon comes after, his hair loose and with his black-framed glasses atop his nose. There is a weird expression on his face.

“What did your dad say?” he asks, sitting on the bed.

“He wants us to return to the North,” Sansa answers, her face pressed against Ghost’s tummy.

Jon hums and touches her ankle, softly rubbing her skin. He has a contemplative look on.

“What?” she asks.

“I think it's a good idea,” he answers, “We should do it.”

Sansa frowns, puckering her lips in a pout, “I don't want to think about that now.”

Jon nods and lays on the bed behind her, circling his arms around her waist. His warm breath gushes against her neck and Sansa lets out a soft breath, leaning herself into his embrace. It doesn't matter how much they fight for she always returns to his arms.

“I want you to stop smoking,” she whispers, not wanting to crack the glass of the situation they were in.

He kisses her neck and a chill runs through her spine, standing up every hair on her body, “Done.”

Sansa sighs, closing her eyes and letting exhaustion take her, “I need a nap.”

“Take a nap.” Jon runs his fingers through her hair. “Let me make dinner.”

Sansa holds a laugh back, “You're a terrible cook.”

She can feel Jon smile behind her and he holds her tighter as if he can't have enough of her.

“Let me _order_ dinner.”

He lets her go and leaves the bed, draping a blanket over her and turning the AC on. Jon remembers to turn off the lights before leaving and his footsteps drift away, becoming softer and softer until they are gone.

* * *

Sansa drops her head against her arm, feeling the coldness of the bathroom seeping into her bones, leeching off her body heat. She is sweaty, numerous strands of hair sticking to her skin, and gross, with the taste of vomit still lingering inside her mouth.

“I feel like death,” she tells Jon who is standing by the door.

“I'm sorry,” he says, walking to her, “Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?”

Sansa shakes her head. It feels like she has been in the loo for hours, puking her eyes out in what is supposed to be morning sickness except it's not really exclusive to mornings, is it? She looks at the watch on her wrist. _3 a.m._ Sansa is so tired that she could probably fall asleep right then and there.

“Do you want me to make you a sandwich?” Jon asks, rubbing her shoulders.

Sansa nods and suddenly her mouth waters. Hungry. She is so hungry. She has barely eaten anything the entire day without throwing up and doctor Tarly said it was normal, too many hormones and whatever, but Gods does she feel the worst. In her entire life, Sansa has never been so uncomfortable, so sick. Her back aches all the time and she gets tired so easily. No one ever told her it would be like this.

“Stop making mommy sick,” she tells her belly, “Or no dinner.”

Her belly doesn't answer, because why would it? She stands up on shaky legs, running a hand through her stomach, and opens the tap. Sansa brushes her teeth and cleans her face, before drinking a full glass of water.

She returns to bed in silence, after peeing and drinking more water. Jon is still in the kitchen and only Lady stayed with her, though the dog is snoring heavily, sprawled over her cushion.

Sansa ignores the covers, she is so hot these days and cuddles with her pregnancy pillow. Suddenly, a whirring noise comes from the kitchen, ringing in her ears. _What the fuck is he doing?_ , she thinks, tiredly.

Jon returns minutes later with a plate and a bottle filled with a pinkish thick liquid. Sansa stares at it in disgust. “What's that?”

“My mom sent me an email when I told her about it,” he answers, getting on the bed next to her. Jon hands her the plate and the bottle. “All the recipes that pregnant women must consume in the tribe. This is one of them.”

Jon is from an isolated community in the far North, further even than her own family's states, descended from those who lived on the other side of the Wall. Wildlings, they used to be called by the old lords of Westeros, though they preferred the name of _Free Folk_.

He had been raised by his mother in her clan, talking her clanging and harsh language until the age of fifteen, when his father decided to claim him and demand that he be taught the Common Tongue. Her husband still had an accent weighing down his words, but she didn't care. It was a little sexy, even.

Sansa takes the bottle from his hand. “Does your mother know it's five?”

He nods, fluffing a pillow behind her. Sansa drinks Jon's concoction to please him and is delightfully surprised by the sweet taste, though it does little to settle the rumbling on her stomach.

She scarfs down the sandwich in a few bites, so hungry that she is. Jon watches her, chewing his inner cheek, as if he wants to tell her something.

“What else did your mom say?” she asks, licking her lips. Jon may not be a good cook, but he knows how much she loves ketchup.

“Just some tips,” he says, looking at his hands, “Plus she wants us to live in the reservation.”

Sansa stops where she is, snuggling closer to Jon while trying to remain with her giant pillow. She stares at her husband, at his guilty face and wonders what he has done.

“You told her that this is not possible, right?”

Jon looks up at her, an incredulous look covering his beautiful features. “Yes, of course!” He sighs, rubbing a hand through his face. “You know how she gets.”

Sansa sets her plate and bottle aside and scoots even closer to Jon, wrapping her arms around his lithe body. He hugs her back, laying on the bed, and turns off the lights.

“After my grandfather died, she always wanted me to return,” he starts, visibly swallowing, “My people don't leave their land. It's against our law. It's against tradition.”

“If you had never left, you never would have met me.”

Jon smiles and hugs her tighter.

“I know, but she's scared for me. For us.”

Sansa frowns and stops drawing circles in Jon's chest with her finger. “Why?”

He shrugs. “It's what the legends say. When Free Folk goes beyond the Neck, the gods punish them with death, sickness, and sorrow. _Ekag_ , we call it. There's no proper translation for it, other than _Abandonment_.”

Sansa shudders. After eight years of marriage, she has picked up a bit of the Old Tongue, though not much. She tries to say the word and it has a heavy taste on her mouth, poisonous, turning her around and lurching her stomach. Somehow, she knows it what it means even without the further explanation that Jon gives her.

The souther they go, the blinder is the eye that the gods turn to them.

“Your mother thinks that if we don't return North, our babies will die,” she whispers and her words settle into the silence of their room, like a cloud of heavy smoke, suffocating them.

“Yes,” says Jon.

“And what do you think?” Sansa asks, biting her lip and too afraid of the answer that she will get in return.

Except Jon doesn't speak, doesn't even try to respond, and that is enough for her.

* * *

Sansa holds her phone against her ear as she walks along the clean corridor, pushing a cart with her, “Mom, I told you, I’m at work, I can't talk right now.”

Her mother sighs on the other end of the call and Sansa can almost feel her thinly veiled disappointment, “A Stark must always make time for family, especially in such stressful times.”

She stops in front of her patient’s door and holds herself back from ending the car right then and there, to only call her mother later after her shift is done or when it's time for a coffee break. It would certainly make everything easier.

Sansa rolls her eyes.

“I know, mom, but Jon and I need money,” she says, taking her patient’s chart and reading every single request his doctor made. She did this earlier while preparing the cart, but it feels like a good way to spend time. “Having five babies at once is very expensive.”

“Your father has offered to give you any money you want, but you refused!”

Sansa sighs, changing the ear her phone is in, “I'm thirty-two, mom. I can't be supported by my dad my entire life.”

Her patient is Wylly Stone, eight years old. Broke his arm in a game of hockey. He had to get surgery. His doctor wants to do a blood test to make sure everything is okay.

“I’ve gotta go, mom. I'll call you later.” Sansa ends the call before her mother can protest and puts her phone on silent, before dropping it inside her uniform’s pocket.

She knocks on the door and a female voice tells her to enter. It's early, his breakfast hasn't even arrived, and she pushes the cart inside, closing the door behind her.

Wylly is laying on his bed, watching cartoons on a tablet, and his mom is sitting by him, scrolling through her phone.

“Good morning, Wylly,” Sansa says, pushing the cart until she is at his side. Wylly raises his eyes and pauses the cartoon with his good hand, “How was your night?”

“Wylly refused to go to sleep until three a.m.,” his mom tells her, a knowing look on her face, “I had to take his tablet away before he finally agreed to rest.”

Sansa smiles, “That's not very good, is it? Give me your arm, please. You need to sleep to be very tall and strong.”

“That's what I told him. Boys will be boys..” Mrs. Stone looks at her badge. “Do you have children, Mrs. Snow?”

“I'm pregnant, actually,” Sansa says, tapping Wylly’s arm until she can see a blue vein popping underneath his skin.

“Really?” Mrs. Stone asks, “When is the baby due?”

Sansa takes her needle and carefully punctures Wylly’s arm with it, filling two vials of blood before she is done, “The babi _es_ are due at the end of this year.”

“Twins? What a blessing! Two little babies at once sounds like a dream.” Mrs. Stone is smiling and starts telling the story of her cousin who has two sets of twins with a four-year difference between then.

Sansa should correct her. It's what is expected of her. It would be so easy to say, _I’m not having twins, I'm having quintuplets. Five babies_ , but she doesn't. She stays quiet, allowing her to think that there are only two fetuses inside her, and leaves the room as quickly as she can, dropping the two vials with a lab technician.

She walks to the nurse’s break room, sitting on the old sofa that has seen better days and sighs. There is a nurse from the 24-hour shift napping on the other couch, two men talking and drinking coffee and a female nurse eating a salad while scrolling through her phone.

Sansa never bonded with them. Her co-workers. It's as if a part of her always knew that she would one day return to the North. She never wanted to live in King’s Landing, but Jon was offered a good job at the Royal University, with benefits and she couldn't very well let him go alone. She’d die without him.

It's a good idea, she thinks, returning home. They'd have more help with the babies, her parents would be closer to them and the North is a perfect place to raise a child, let alone five.

Sansa would have to talk to Jon, of course, but in her heart, it's as if she has already made her decision.

* * *

Jon kicks the door open, pushing with his shoulder as he enters their house, carrying a heavy-looking box in his hands. Sansa stares at him, muting the TV, and slowly takes a spoon full of yogurt to her mouth.

“What you got there, babe?” she asks as Ghost and Lady, sitting dutifully by her side, perk up with curiosity.

“Books,” he answers, or rather groans, “The University of Winterfell sent them to me so I could prepare my classes for the next semester.”

Sansa looks around her. Since their decision to move back home, boxes had taken over their house to take all of their belongings to the North and, despite her eagerness to help, only Jon was helping. Strict orders from doctor Tarly: no straining herself.

Jon tumbles towards his “office”, a small desk pushed against the wall, and leaves the box there, taking deep breaths to recover. He has pulled his sleeves up, his muscled arms sweaty and she thinks that whoever said nerds can't be sexy was a complete idiot.

He starts taking a few books out and Sansa unmutes the TV, back to watching her soap opera. She takes another spoonful of yogurt to her mouth and a swig of her strawberry smoothie. Elyna is cheating on her husband with his younger brother, apparently. Gods, these families are complicated.

“Is that… yogurt with pickles and chocolate cookies?” Jon asks, peering over her own shoulder.

Sansa tries to move away from him and his judgmental eyes, scooting her butt to the other end of the couch, but just a few movements are enough to tire her out and she lays, helpless and out of breath, against Lady's furry back.

“Stop judging me!” she cries, “Doctor Tarly said I need to take 3500 calories a day to feed your kids!”

Jon arches an eyebrow and he sets his book aside. Before she knows, he is sitting by her side, putting her long legs over his lap and rubbing her sore ankle with his thumb.

“They are your kids too,” he says.

“No.” Sansa shakes her head. “My kids are perfect angels. They don't make me bloated, nauseous and tired. This is your DNA.”

Jon laughs, pressing his fingers against a particular achy spot on her feet and Sansa groans, closing her eyes and enjoying the massage her husband is giving her.

Sansa finishes her yogurt, swallowing the last little piece of chocolate cookies, and puts the bowl aside. Her head is already thinking about taking another one, Jon's judgment put aside when she hears his voice.

“Give me a peek,” Jon asks, looking at her.

“Hey, my body does not become public just because I'm pregnant,” but she is already pulling her pajama shirt up, exposing her belly.

At ten weeks, her stomach is a lot bigger than what a singleton pregnancy would look like. Jon presses his hand against her belly button, where Baby A is and kisses her skin. Butterflies fly around her insides. Ten years together, eight of marriage, and she is still as in love with him as on the first day.

“What will we name them?” he asks, leaning his head against her breasts.

Sansa shrugs. “I can't even think about five names. Especially since we don't know the genders yet.”

Jon hums, closing his eyes and sliding his hands underneath her body, settling on the curve of her bottom.

“I want to name a boy Brandon,” she says, “After my uncle.”

“I'm sure Bran would love that,” he laughs.

Sansa smiles and touches his head, dragging her hand through the soft brown curls. She hopes at least one of them has his hair, preferably a boy.

“If Brandon is one of the twins, we should name the other one Torrhen,” Jon says, “The first and the last Kings in the North before the Targaryen Conquest.”

Sansa nods. It's a pretty idea. Twins with matching names, some significance behind it that the common man may not understand. And Jon loves history, no surprise there, so it makes sense that he would want something that remembered him of one of his passions.

“Will you talk to them in the Old Tongue?” she asks.

Jon nods, “I want my children to be proud of their heritage.”

“They will,” says Sansa, “I’m sure of it. Especially with such a devoted father.”

Jon smiles and presses his lips against her belly again before pulling down her shirt. He gets out of the couch with a groan, returning to his books, and Sansa gets up as well.

She drags herself to the kitchen, but their fridge is disappointedly empty since they have stopped doing large scale groceries to get ready for moving day. She frowns, pouting, and looks around, searching for an answer.

Jon yawns from the living room and she can hear him scratching his beard.

Sansa looks to her belly. Though she is wearing pajamas, it’s quite a hot night for King’s Landing and her clothes consist of a tank top and sweatpants, one of the only that she is comfortable wearing around the house.

She waddles back to the living room, caressing her own stomach. “Baby?” she starts, in her sweetest voice.

Jon is wearing his glasses and writing something on a laptop, a focused posture taking over his body, but he turns to her when she calls and a smile breaks his expression. She almost feels bad for what she is about to do. _Almost._ “Yes, dear?”

“I’m so hungry,” she states, leaning against the doorway, “Can you go into the market and buy me some things?”

Her husband looks at the sofa where she conveniently left her empty bowl of yogurt and her cup of smoothie. They sit there, glaring accusatory remarks at her, but Sansa doesn't let herself be affected by them. She turns to Jon, staring at him, waiting for him to look back at her.

“You just ate,” he states, turning to his computer, “How about you wait a couple of hours and, when I'm done with this, I'll go buy your food?”

Anger flares in the pit of her stomach and she almost growls. “Are you fucking kidding? I thought you cared about me and the babies!”

“Hey, I do care!” Jon says, flabbergasted at her change in mood.

“Then why are you letting us starve to death?” she asks, crossing her arms.

Jon frowns. “I'm not, I'm just saying that I'll go later!”

“Fine!” Sansa turns and walks in the direction of their bedroom, Ghost, and Lady following close behind.

“Sansa, come back here!” Jon screams, but she ignores him. “Fuck… Ok, send me a text with all the things that you want. I'll go to the store right now.”

“Thank you, baby!” she screams back, skipping up and down, running to get her phone. Sansa's mouth is already watering with the prospect of food.

* * *

**_  
The eldest daughter of the northern governor is expecting quintuplets._ **

_Sansa Snow, 32, is expecting five babies with a due date being set to the end of this year, according to a spokesperson of the Stark family. The children have been conceived through the use of IVF after Sansa and her husband, Jon Snow, 35, were unable to get pregnant on their own._

_The Snows are the first set of quintuplets to be announced since the Dayne Quints ten years ago. The four boys and one girl were stillborn after a pregnancy of just nineteen weeks…_

Sansa closes the tab before even finishing reading the news report, preferring to fill her mind with other businesses. She opens another site, typing a simple word in the online shop’s search bar. _Cribs._ Jon is sitting by her side in bed, reading a book about the Second Targaryen Conquest and typing furiously on his own computer, ordering shelves from a hardware store at the same time as he studies.

“What do you think about these cots?” she asks, turning the screen to him. Jon looks at it for half a second before returning to his own matters.

“A little too expensive,” he answers, “One is not so bad, but five? It’s too over the budget.”

“But it comes with a changing station on top,” Sansa says, “We would save money on that matter.”

Jon blinks, pausing for a moment, before typing an entire paragraph about northern independence. “What about when the babies start standing up? How can we prevent them from bumping their heads?”

Sansa frowns and then sighs, loosening her shoulders. He’s right. He is always right. She continues her search and it feels like hours have passed before she finds one that is acceptable both to her and to Jon. A lovely crib made of dark brown wood with 4.5 stars and thousands of positive reviews.

“Where is my credit card?” she asks, turning to Jon.

“Use mine,” he says, pulling his wallet from the back pocket in his pants. Jon is still wearing his work clothes.

“Oh, look at him,” teases Sansa, “The man of the house, providing for his family.”

Jon snickers and she laughs back, leaning a little closer to him. Sansa starts to fill out the form, ordering five cribs and writing her parents’ address in Winterfell, plus Jon's credit information. It is only when the button to send order appears in the screen that she stops, her shaking fingers hovering over the keystrokes as a sudden weight presses down on her chest, paralysing her entire body. _It’s real_ , she thinks, _I’m having five babies._

“Sansa?” Jon calls and it feels like she is hearing him with a delay, seeing his lips move before the words reach her ears, “Darling, are you alright?”

She feels his hands on her shoulders, on her cheeks and the weight of the laptop on her legs is removed as Jon pulls her closer, wiping the tears that travel down her face with his thumbs.

“I’m ordering five cribs,” she whispers, “But there is no guarantee in the entire world that we will use them.”

She looks at Jon and sees his panicked expression, the way his pupils are blown in his dark gray eyes. Sansa puts her hands over his and feels his cold skin against her own, the blood rushing back to his limbs as she lets herself be hugged and comforted.

“What are you talking about, Sansa?” he asks, tightening his hold on her.

“You heard Doctor Tarly today,” she murmurs, lips against his shoulders, “I’ll give birth before 30 weeks, long before we reach term. Our babies will have to be in the NICU for who knows how long and anything can happen with a preterm infant. _Anything._ We might not bring all the babies home.”

Jon kisses her head, her face and then her lips. “Oh, Sansa. We will, I promise. Everything will be fine.”

“How do you know that?” she sobs.

“I just do.” He lets go of her to look in her eyes. Gray meets teary blue and Sansa holds his gaze, trying to find a lie between his promises, but she can’t. Jon believes in what he is saying. She takes a deep breath and shudders with fear. “I know just like I know that, tomorrow, you are going to travel North and Robb will pick you up at the airport. Your mother will have prepared a feast for your arrival, because she doesn’t want thin grandchildren.” Sansa laughs at that. “Your father will try to sneak in some money for you and there probably will be a fight before sundown, with Rickon and Arya involved. Sometimes, I just know things. Don’t worry, my love. Everything will be okay.”

Sansa nuzzles Jon’s neck, wraps her long legs around his waist and presses her belly against him. A content filling settles on her lower stomach as if the babies themselves are happy as well with this proximity between her and their daddy.

“You’re so smart,” she whispers, “What did I do to deserve you?”

“I don’t know.” Jon shrugs. “Maybe you saved a couple of orphans or something.”

Sansa laughs and then lets go of Jon. She wipes her tears away with her fingers and kisses Jon, pressing herself against him. He responds to her with as much enthusiasm, licking into her mouth and laying them down on the bed.

It's so easy getting distracted with him that she almost forgets. Jon bites her lower lip and slides his hands underneath her shirt, touching as much as he can until his fingers reach her breasts. Sansa moans against his mouth and…

She pushes him away and climbs out of the bed, running towards the bathroom. She reaches the toilet a second before it's too late, puking all of her stomach's content.

Jon is staring at her when she looks up, his glasses on and a cup of water on his hand.

“Thanks,” says Sansa. She drinks it down in a few gulps before setting it aside. “I imagine I don't look very sexy right now.”

“Don't worry about that.” Jon shakes his head.

Sansa crawls to the wall, pressing her face against the cold tiles. Her husband sits down the next to her.

“We can't have sex,” she whispers, “Doctor Tarly warned me against it but I forgot.”

Jon takes her hand and rubs her palm with his thumb. “I should know better.”

Sansa smiles. It's so like him to take the fault for himself.

“I'm guilty as well, but I saw this post revealing my pregnancy and I just freaked out.” She takes a deep breath, counting down to three. “An increase in libido is a normal symptom during a gestational stage, or whatever, as is mood swings. You were very sweet to me and…”

“Sansa,” Jon interrupts her. “You don't have to explain yourself to me.”

She pouts and scoots closer to him, cuddling as much as she can on the cold bathroom floor. “I can't believe my dad would leak that I'm pregnant with these babies without telling me.”

“I can,” Jon murmurs, rubbing her scalp in a soothing manner.

“What do you mean?” she asks, raising her head to look at him.

“Elections are in two months, love,” he says in a sweet tone as if she is a child who must be explained everything with clear words. “Eddard Stark is not stupid. It's very likely that he will win it again if he appears familiar, always surrounded by grandchildren and whatnot. Our people follow those that preach what they believe in.”

Sansa sighs, knowing very well that he is right. It wouldn't be the first time her father did something to improve his political standing without telling her. “It will be much harder to keep your father at bay now that the whole country knows that we are expecting.”

Jon hesitates and she hears his heart pounding in his chest, a signal of all his worries.

“Rhaegar doesn't scare me,” he says and Sansa catches the lie between his words, though she doesn't say anything. “Can we go back to bed? My butt is getting cold.”

Sansa nods and gets up, using Jon's shoulders as support. She walks back to their bedroom and jumps on the bed, grabbing her laptop from where Jon left it on the floor. There is no fear in her heart when she clicks on the button and the order of five cribs is officialized.

She is having these babies. They will all survive. She will make sure of it.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa deals with her family without Jon.

Sansa walks down the stairs, rubbing her face with her hands. Gods, she's so tired. The babies had decided to start their movements during the night, when she least expected it, and refused to stop well into the early hours of the morning. It's moments like these that she is glad to have quit her job, knowing she can nap during the entire day if she wants to.

She enters the kitchen, daydreaming about scrambled eggs and bacon, when she opens her eyes and sees it, taking a step back in surprise. There's a little girl sitting on the counter, with long black hair and a freckled doe-eyed face, holding a doll in her hands. She looks up and Sansa sees that her eyes are blue, just like hers.

“Good morning,” she says, recomposed. Sansa enters the kitchen and starts walking towards the fridge, “What are you doing awake?”

The little girl shrugs, moving her doll around as if she's walking on the kitchen island. “I'm not sleepy.”

Sansa smiles, knowingly, and a part of her already knows what to do next.

“Do you want something to eat, darling?” she asks, already turning to the refrigerator.

“Yes, mommy,” the little girl answers.

Sansa stops in her tracks, a bottle of milk on her hand. She looks around herself and notices things that weren’t there before, that her sleep-deprived mind couldn’t notice. The past minutes run through her mind and she relives the entire morning again, a more focused idea behind it. How could she have used the stairs, if their house in King’s Landing, the one they currently live in, only has one floor?

 _Mommy._ Sansa looks down at her belly, still swollen with the growing lives of her babies, and her heart misses a beat. There is no one to call her mommy yet. She turns slowly and sees the girl, still sitting as if nothing is wrong.

“Who are you?” Sansa asks, frowning.

“Mya,” she answers, “Mya Snow. Your daughter.”

Sansa touches her star necklace. It's impossible, but it makes sense. Somehow, in this hallucination, or dream that she is trapped, a part of her knows that it's true and the fear that she’ll never see Mya again fills her veins, running thick and hot through her body. _Gods, please no._ “Are you in my belly right now, Mya?”

“Yes,” Mya says, smiling and she looks a little bit like Arya at that moment. Wolfish and wild, but still gentle and sweet, “Me and the others.”

Sansa takes a step ahead, leaning closer to the girl claiming to be her daughter, and touches her cheeks, her soft hair and Mya leans into her touch, smiling shyly. It feels odd. It’s as if she’s touching the girl through a wall of water, or that she’s wearing gloves. Something is holding her motherly love back, but still. It’s the first time she actually gets to touch one of her children, even if it is not real.

“Which one are you?” she asks, cupping the girl’s face with her hands. “Which baby?”

“I’m A, mommy,” Mya answers, holding up one of her fingers. Baby A. The only one without an identical twin. Her unique child.

Blinking back tears, Sansa opens her arms and Mya crawls to her, happily falling into her embrace. A breath of relief takes Sansa, a weight falling off her shoulders. She kisses Mya’s hair, her face, and her daughter giggles, circling her weight with her skinny legs. The little girl is weightless on her arms, so Sansa doesn’t worry.

“You have to wake up now,” Mya says, sadly, “You can’t stay here forever.”

“I know,” answers Sansa, “But don’t worry, sweetie. We’ll see each other again. I promise.”

Mya smiles and, when Sansa wakes up with Jon snoring by her side, the dogs sitting protectively at the foot of the bed, there is no anxiety in her body, no fear, only love. She pulls her shirt up and her stomach springs out, big and swollen. Red, ugly and thick scars have started appearing on her skin, a sign of her body stretching to accommodate the babies. Sansa hates them, hates how they look on her and make her feel as if she’s not herself anymore.

Tonight, however, she doesn’t let herself be upset with her own outcome. She sits up on the bed, pushing her body upwards, and takes the bottle of hydro lotion on the nightstand. Sansa squirts a bit on her hand and spreads it around her belly, getting a good scratch here and there.

At that moment, Sansa knows that there is nothing to worry about.

* * *

_@shae0790: i hope they arent planning on bringing this many babies to term. its selfish, if you ask me_

_@flowrrs: sounds kind of shady. sansa has been out of the spotlight for years, why would she come back now? i bet she isnt even pregnant_

_@poonam: i wonder what dany has to say about this. jons like her cousin or something right?_

_@targstan: ooooh what if they name a baby after dany?????? that would be so awesome!! another dany targaryen in the world!!!!!_

_@tedd623: another old house having as many babies as they can to steal taxpayers money #shameonthem_

_@wyllalovestheseven: may the gods bless their children that will hopefully be brought up with the faith_

* * *

Jon cradles her head between his hands, touching their foreheads as he lays drowning kisses on her lips.

“I'll miss you so much,” she whispers, holding his waist, “I'll die without you.”

Jon laughs and presses his mouth against hers a thousand times. “We'll be together in a few days. Me, you, Ghost, Lady and the babies.” He will drive to Winterfell, a journey that takes over three days, taking the dogs and their furniture to their new home.

“Too long,” she says, shaking her head, “I'll go into a vegetative state and the only thing that can wake me up is your kisses.”

“Really?” Jon is smiling.

“Yes.” Sansa kisses him again and again and again. “I'll go into withdrawal. No one but you can save me.”

She presses herself against him in a way almost obscene and slides her hands up his body, settling on his shoulders. Jon is so strong; he loves jogging with the dogs, hitting the gym, staying fit. Sansa would have married him regardless of his physique, but well… A six-pack doesn't hurt.

They stop kissing because they have to, leaning their foreheads together. Sansa keeps her eyes closed. She doesn't want to see the expression on his face, the sadness on his eyes and the silent request lingering on his lips. _Don't go. Wait for me._

They haven't spent a night apart since their wedding. She doesn't even know how to sleep without him.

“Do you have your snacks?” Jon asks.

“Yes,” Sansa whispers, rubbing her hands through his beard, trying to commit the texture to memory, “And my smoothies.”

“What about your pills? Did you take them?” He's so worried, so protective.

“Vitamins and steroids too.” She opens her eyes slowly. “It's time to go.”

He nods and kisses her once more. “I'll see you on Friday.” Jon leans down and presses his mouth against the top of her belly. “Be good to your mother, children.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” says Sansa, “Mya has been sitting on top of my bladder the whole morning.”

Jon frowns. “Mya?”

“Yes.” Sansa smiles, “Last night, I dreamt that Baby A was a girl. She told me her name is Mya.”

“Oh?” Jon arches an eyebrow but leans down again. “Ok. Mya, get out of mommy's bladder.”

Sansa tries to imagine what Mya would look like if she’d be like that little girl in her dream. Or all of their children. Would they look like her, or Jon? Girls and boys with gray somber eyes and soft brown hair. Or maybe laughing children, running after her, Sansa's clones in the flesh. She hopes that at least one of them has her hair and Jon's eyes. Mya, Brandon, Torrhen and their brothers or sisters.

Sansa holds her necklace between her hands, the one with the three stars that is always with her, the cord long enough to place it next to her heart and takes a deep breath. It's hard to handle so much happiness and sadness at the same time.

“Bye,” she whispers, letting go of Jon.

He smiles sadly. Sansa takes her purse in her hands and turns around, her heart beating wildly in her chest. Every step she takes is painful as if someone is stabbing her in the stomach, and it takes every fiber of her being to not turn around and return to his arms.

She turns to him once more, when she is crossing the door that leads towards the terminal. He's still there, looking at her with intense eyes. Sansa waves before turning around again, her walk a little more secure.

The North awaits her. Finally, after seven years, Sansa is going home.

* * *

Hour six. Sansa has made herself comfortable, blue moccasins forgotten on the floor in favor of stretching her legs on the seat next to hers, taking quick advantage of the fact that the passenger assigned there had missed the flight. She shoves baby carrots in her mouth, forgoing the pot of ranch sauce on the tray as the latest episode of Keeping Up with the Lannisters appears at the tv screen.

Sansa had never been a fan of reality shows, but, after failing to sleep and reading the entire book she brought to the seven-hour flight in just over two hours, she had to become pragmatic and forget her pride, but, wow, has that decision payed off.

“ _Why the fuck would you cheat on Robert?”_ Jaime Lannister asks his handsome face displaying a questioning look as if he doesn't know why. Acting, she knows, but still. He's good. “ _With Osmund, of all people.”_

Everyone knows why Cersei would want to cheat on Robert. Despite years of marriage, he is an asshole, treating her and their children with contempt. Sansa hates him.

Before Cersei, Jaime's twin sister can answer, the image freezes on her face and the captain's voice rings loudly on her headphones, warning about their proximity to Winterfell and the approaching descent.

Sansa opens her window. Green lands and full woods have turned into a gray field, stretching miles and miles underneath her, with a growing city peeking in the horizon. Winterfell.

As her birth city approaches, Sansa palms her hand against the window, already feeling the cold seeping into her skin, leeching off her body heat. Seven years away, with few visits here and there, trying to birth a pack of wolves far away from the den, and there she is, home, finally.

A stewardess passes between the seats, dressed in the company's fine red dress, and stops in front of Sansa's.

“Please put your seatbelt on, ma'am,” she says, “Tray up, as well.”

“Of course!” responds Sansa, more cheerful than ever.

Once she is done, her eyes return to the window. Winterfell buzzes with life amidst the cold, Sansa can see it even from a distance. The cars honking around, people as tiny as ants going through their daily lives. Somewhere, her family awaits her. Dad, mom, Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon and everyone else.

Someone tiny kicks her ribs, a silent agreement, and Sansa knows that she is ready.

The plane starts its descent towards the Winterfell International Airport, a gift from her grandfather to the city many years ago, before she had even been born. Her heart jumps in her chest, beating wildly and only stopping when they are safe and sound on the ground.

Another kick, this time on her lower stomach, and Sansa caresses her belly, praying for the strength to calm down. _Yes, I agree,_ she thinks, _there is no need for panic._

It doesn't take long for the freezing air to find her as soon as the doors are opened, swirling around on the plane. Sansa shudders in her seat, picking her coat from where left it atop her legs and throwing it around her body. The other passengers don't seem to mind it, standing up and grabbing their things without even a word of acknowledge.

She had been made of ice once. She had been Sansa Stark, daughter of Ned Stark, a true descendant of the old Kings of Winter, but then she fell in a love with a man and lovingly followed him when he received a job opportunity in the South. King's Landing had melted away all of the cold in her. It was time that she froze it back.

* * *

Sansa has not seen her brother in three years.

She remembers their last encounter when he visited King's Landing for a business meeting and stayed at her house, when she told him about the IVF and her first hopeful prospect of being a mother in such a long time, how she had begun saving for it. Robb was thirty and two then, newly entrusted with their company, still bright-eyed and innocent, a new father. Beardless.

Sansa runs to him as soon as she sees him, opening her arms wide and jumping onto his embrace. Robb laughs, patting her back, and hugs her tight.

“Oh,” he groans, “You're too heavy.” He sets her down and takes a step back, analyzing her entire body with his blue eyes, so like her own. “Gods, you're so big.”

“Is that your way of calling me fat, big brother?” asks Sansa, laughing. She turns around and looks until her eyes hurt. “Where is Jeyne?”

Robb grimaces. “Where do you think? Running after the twins, trying to control them. I'll tell you what, Sansa, those two are little shits.”

“Robb!” Sansa's eyes widen comically and she feels as if her ears are playing a trick on her, “You can't say that about your own children.”

“What?” He looks at her with disbelief covering his face. “Don't worry. I'm saying that with love behind it. Here, let me help you.”

Sansa hands him her cart gladly, welcoming the relief that not pushing the damned thing around brings her. Robb walks and Sansa follows, the way things have been with them for years, decades even. He tells her a half hundred stories about the twins and Jeyne and Arya and Bran. They are nearly out of the airport when Jeyne finds them, pulling two red-headed boys by their arms as they wail and flail around.

“Hi, Sansa!” says Jeyne, hugging her as best as she can without letting go of her sons, “It's so good to see you. I'm so happy that you've returned!”

Jeyne has long brown hair, with hazel eyes and a beautiful smile. Robb met her at college and fell in love instantly. They were perfect for each other, everyone said so. Sansa envied her, sometimes. Perfect girl with the perfect husband and the perfect womb. When she learned about Jeyne's pregnancy, fruitful without even a month of trying to conceive, she wanted to hate her, to despise her blessing whereas she only had pain and an empty nursery, except no one could ever hate Jeyne Westerling. She is too nice.

Little Eddard roars like a lion, moving his neck and opening his mouth in a way that makes Sansa thinks that he wants to bite Jeyne so that she'll let go. Robb stares at him with a stern look until he stops.

Eddard and Rickard, age four, are a handful. Sansa knows that even without meeting them properly after years of emails and a half-assed attempt to a family group chat on WhatsApp. Robb once described it like a videogame, every phase is more difficult than the previous one. Night feedings, teething, first steps, _potty training._  Sansa wonders if hers are going to be the same. She hopes not.

Jeyne raises her head and looks beyond Sansa's shoulder as if trying to find something. “Where's Jon?”

“Oh.” Sansa waves a hand around as if she doesn't care, “He'll come later. Someone had to drive with the dogs and the car, so he volunteered because…”

“He's not massively pregnant?” Robb offers as they walk out of the airport, entering the frigid air of the open parking lot. Sansa shivers and the cold infiltrates her coat like needles, prickling at her skin.

“Because he cares about his wife,” she corrects, smiling sweetly. Robb sticks his tongue out.

“I can't say I don't understand the protective husband,” says Jeyne, “Rickard, stop kicking or, I swear to all seven Gods, I will ground you until you have hair on your chest. Robb wouldn't let me do anything when I was carrying the boys. I felt very safe with him.”

Sansa smiles, hugging herself in an attempt to save some of her heat, and picks up her pace, staying a few steps behind Robb.

“I read about your pregnancy in a few papers,” her brother starts, sticking his gloved hand in his pocket and fishing out a chain of keys, “You're starting to become one of the seven wonders.”

“Yes, I saw what Rhaegar said about Jon. It was so unnecessary for him to call--” Before Jeyne can finish her sentence, Little Ned breaks free from her grasp and makes a run for it, “Father give me patience… Eddard Stark, come back here!”

Robb doesn't seem affected by it. He continues walking towards the car, gladly taking Rickard's arm when his wife hands the boy to him before starting to run after the other. Sansa wonders how many times a day something likes this happens.

She helps her brother with her bags and Rickard, silently holding the boy. Her nephew stares at her, blinking his large brown eyes and pouting.

“Come here, son,” says Robb, taking Rickard from her grasp once he is finished with her things and the car seats. Surprisingly, Rick comes without much protest, happily grabbing a plushie wolf from the car, “Divide and conquer, that's the key to good parenting.”

“They don't talk much, do they?” Sansa asks, turning around on the car and opening a door on the back.

“They are a little shy around strangers,” Robb answers, sitting at the driver's seat, “Just you wait. They'll be annoying 24/7 in just a few days' time.”

Sansa looks out of the window and she sees Jeyne, almost a hundred feet away, pulling Eddard by his arm as he flails around, grabbing hold of cars and carts on his way, attracting the attention of a very concerned family on their way in.

“ _This_ ” she starts, not believing, “is them being shy?”

Jeyne returns to the car, wrestling Ned into his seat. She curses and buckles him, before sitting at her own seat next to Robb, pushing a few strands of her hair that got away from her tight bun away from her face. If it weren't for her blushed cheeks and sweaty neck, nothing would be found amiss if one were to look at her expression.

“So, Sansa,” Jeyne starts, ignoring her wailing son in the back seat, “Have you given any thought to preschools?”

They are driving for what feels like hours before they arrive at their parents’ house, the silent in the car being filled by Jeyne's constant chattering, asking about weights, heartbeats and has she decided what to do about feeding yet? _There is no shame in using formula, Sansa_ as if she didn't already know that. The twins have fallen asleep at some point, each holding their own plushy, with Eddard drooling into his poor wolf's head. They have been in the road for so long that she can't react when they aren't anymore when Robb stops in front of their gates and the security guard recognizes his plate and lets them in.

Sansa moved out of her childhood home at the age of eighteen, after being accepted in college and starting a path that would eventually lead into her meeting Jon and becoming a nurse, but she has never forgotten those years at the Stark Estate, with grounds so big that she needed a map to get around and a five-story mansion, with an elevator and a private butler.

“Great, Arya's here,” Robb says, maneuvering the car around, “That's Gendry's G-Wagon.”

“So is Bran,” murmurs Jeyne, “I see his van.”

Sansa hums in agreement, drawing stars in the foggy window. Robb parks as smoothly as he can and the front door opens, their mother standing in the doorway, hugging her body with thin arms. Her red hair has gray streaks all around it, but she ages like a fine wine, getting more beautiful as each year passes. Sansa can feel her disappointment from feet away, burning into her skin.

Still, Catelyn Tully Stark throws her arms open when her firstborn daughter returns home, pulling her into a tight embrace.

“It’s good that you’re here,” her mother says, letting her go, “There’s much to do.”

Sansa rolls her eyes, but enters the house anyway, toeing off her shoes in the front hall. She can hear familiar voices arguing in heated tones, people making sure their frustrations can be heard. Catelyn walks in the direction of the TV room and Sansa follows, looking around in an attempt to find her brothers and sister.

“That’s not how this fucking works!” a gruff voice shouts, one that she hasn’t heard in quite some time.

“Please, don’t curse in front of Missy,” a female voice responds.

Sansa enters the TV room at the same time that her younger sister says those words, her nine-year-old daughter sitting between her legs as Arya brushes her long black hair into a ponytail. Bran and Rickon are in the midst of an argument about something, while her father ignores them, watching a game of hockey with Gendry. They all seem so focused on their own little things that they barely notice her arrival.

“Hey,” says Sansa, dropping her purse on the couch.

“Hey!” Bran responds before wheeling around and returning to his fight with Rickon. It doesn't take long for him to realize, though, “Sansa! You're back!”

Suddenly, she is engulfed in hugs and kisses; Gendry gives her a bone-crushing embrace, Arya pats her awkwardly on the back and on the belly, Rickon nods and Missy, regretfully, informs her that she can't hand her the drawing she has been making for her arrival, though not in those exact words.

“It's not done yet,” her niece explains.

“Don't worry, darling,” answers Sansa, sitting down next to the one person who has yet to talk to her.

Her father looks at her with an odd expression on his face, as if he never believed she would return home in such a haste and pregnant with quintuplets. Sansa wishes she could have planned the movie better, that things would have gone differently; she wishes she never left the North, that her babies came as five singleton pregnancies, with none of the worries and all of the joys.

She opens her mouth to say all of that, but her father beats her to it, patting her knee and smiling.

“I know, love,” he says and that is enough for her, “How are you feeling?”

Sansa stretches her entire body, feeling the bones in her spine and legs crack after so many hours in the same sitting position. Jet lag is not a good look on her.

“I'm tired,” she responds, “My back hurts like crazy and I'm always puking. There's no good side to this.”

Father smiles and Sansa knows that he was already expecting that sort of answer. She is experiencing five pregnancies in one, after all. “Yes, there is. You'll have your children in the end.”

Sansa smiles, setting her hands atop her stomach. Sometimes, it's hard to fathom that there are five little people inside of her, moving around and growing, depending solely on their mother for sustenance. Everything she does rebounds on them, her children, her miracle babies.

“Do you want anything, darling?” her mother says, appearing in the doorway with Robb and Jeyne in tow, the twins quickly running into the room. “I could you make roasted chicken, with lots of lemon juice just the way you like it.”

“I want roasted chicken!” Rickon says, perking up.

Her mother gives him a meaningful look. “Carry my grandchildren and you’ll get your chicken.”

Rickon pouts and Sansa licks her lips, her mouth-watering at the thought of chicken. Even after stuffing her face with baby carrots and sliced cucumbers on the flight, it feels as if she has not eaten anything all day, like her babies absorbed all of the nutrients and left none of it to her.

So she nods, excitedly, and asks, “Can I have some strawberry yogurt as well?”

Catelyn leaves, with Rickon in tow, begging for some chicken as well. Sansa stays in the TV room, watching the game with her family even though she understands nothing of it. Jon is usually there to explain it to her or make her company. Gods, she misses him. Being away from him is like losing her heart, the one thing that keeps her going is that she’ll see him again in just a few days. Still, she needs to talk to him.

Sansa picks her phone from her purse, unlocking it as quickly as she can and checking her messages.

Jon sent her something.

It’s a picture of him and Ghost, with Lady running around on the background. Jon isn’t looking directly at the camera, preferring to have a faraway stare that seems to stretch for miles and miles, with a pout on and Ghost is laying his head on his paws, the way he does it when he’s sad. _The Snow boys miss you,_ he writes underneath.

Sansa bursts into tears. She misses them as well.

* * *

 _@dtargaryen:_ _i know a lot of people have been wanting me to say something about my nephew's situation, so here i am. Jon is the son of my older brother, but he never had a good relationship with us so it's no surprise that he didn't tell us about such a major thing (1/?)_

_@dtargaryen: jon has feelings of resentment towards his father that are not healthy and now will impact on those five little souls who don't deserve to inherit this fight. My niece has no children and, after what happened to aegon, these babies are the first of the new generation of (2/?)_

_@dtargaryen: targaryens. My mother's first great grandchildren and only I know how heartbroken she was with Jon's rejection when he didn't invite us to his wedding and now this. She still has hope for him and tbh so do i. (3/?)_

_@dtargaryen: i pray that the birth of these miracles will make him realize how truly important family is after everything we've done. I pray that he reaches out to us. But still. You can't force someone to be grateful for what you have given them. You can only pray. (4/4)_

* * *

Sansa moves her spoon around, seeing it stick to the gray paste on it, bringing a nauseated feeling to her stomach. She used to love eating oatmeal, but now just the idea of ingesting the thing makes her want to throw up.

She looks up. Her father is drinking coffee and reading a newspaper, his plate of scrambled eggs and bacon untouched in front of him. Rickon, who still lives with her parents at the age of twenty-four, gulps down orange juice like it's nobody's business, a few droplets escaping the glass and running down his face.

Until Jon arrives, Sansa needs to stay with her parents; a decision made between the three of them without her consent, because what if she falls down the stairs? What if she starts bleeding and there's no one around to help her? _It's the most sensible decision, Sansa,_ and she knows that, but still. It’s hard having a babysitter.

“Eat your food,” her mother says, sitting by her side, “I don't want thin grandchildren.”

Sansa pouts, “I don't want oatmeal. Can't I have pancakes or something?”

Her mother frowns. She spreads cream cheese on her bagel and takes a big bite, a little bit of white smudging her pale cheek. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Just eat, darling. We have a big day ahead of us today.”

It's Sansa's turn to frown. “What do you mean?”

“Well, we will be going to the Sept to light five candles for the Mother to bless your children and then I have planned for us to spend the afternoon buying clothes, blankets and whatever else you'll need.” Catelyn is smiling as if her plan is some grand and special thing.

Though the plans don't sound exciting, there is no fight left in her, so Sansa merely nods.

She turns to her father, who is still reading the paper. “Dad, can you take me to the ruins afterward? I want to pray there as well.”

Rickon stops with his juice and her mother puckers her lips, disappointed. Eddard, however, merely raises his eyes, smiling. “Of course, dear.”

Satisfied, Sansa returns to her food. She eats the oatmeal as quickly as she can, shoving spoonfuls of the stuff into her mouth, knowing that she has to. In a feeble attempt to prevent any vomiting, she drinks a glass full of apple juice. It all sits in her stomach, heavy and thick, but it stays there.

“I have chosen a few clothes for you,” her mother continues, picking up another bagel, “They are on your bed.”

Sansa looks down at her body. She is wearing a white wool sweater, with black jeans and tights underneath, plus her favorite pair of boots.

“What's wrong with my outfit?” she asks.

Her mother shrugs. “There's nothing wrong with it, but it's not you. Sansa, you always wanted to look your very best. Always wearing makeup, always with your hair done. You've changed since you left for King's Landing… I suppose it's that wildling's influence on you.”

Sansa's heart drops and she drops down her arms, banging them slightly on the table. “Mother!” she says, at the same time that her father exclaims, “Catelyn!”

“Jon has nothing to do with my clothes today. I just don't want to wear so much makeup anymore,” she explains, shaking with anger, “Is that so hard to understand?”

“You've changed, love, since you met him.” Her mother doesn't even seem to grasp the effect that her words have, what they mean. “You wanted to be a lawyer since you were a little girl, do you remember that? Always making mock trials with your dolls, arguing their innocence. Then you went off to college and thought that you'd be fulfilling your dreams. Until, one holiday, you brought him home and everything changed.”

“I can't listen to this,” she murmurs, pushing her chair back and leaving the table.

Sansa runs up the stairs, hiding in her old bedroom. In her bed, there is a blue velvet dress and gray cotton stockings, plus a pair of winter boots. She picks the clothes up and throws them on the floor, wanting them as far from her sight as possible. Gods, her mother is insufferable.

It's not fair. Jon tries so _hard_ to make her like him, to be a good son-in-law and it never works. She still despises him, thinks he is a bad influence on her. Gods, her sister loves him, Robb and Bran act like he is their best friend, but her mother still remains cold towards the man. Who did Catelyn even want her to marry? Harry? Does she know what Harry truly is? How cruel, selfish and narcissistic her ex revealed himself to be? And how long has she been hiding those feelings about Jon?

Sansa tries to remember that fateful week, Jon's first holiday with her family. She drove for hours from White Harbor, where they both studied, to Winterfell, and the only thing keeping her going was him by her side; making jokes, telling stories, keeping her awake. If it weren't for his insistence to meet her parents, they would've both stayed in campus, together and in love. Perhaps that would've had a better outcome.

Someone knocks on the door.

“Who is it?” she asks, sitting on her bed.

“Me,” her father answers, his voice muffled from behind the door, “Can we talk?”

Sansa unlocks the door, stepping back to let him in. She stands, awkwardly, near the foot of the bed, unsure of how to move around on these kinds of situations. Growing up, Sansa would never everfight with her mother, the kind of argument that needed the mediation of her father that Arya and Rickon used to have. That is until Jon arrived.

“Your mother is very stressed with the arrival of the babies,” he starts, sitting down at her old study desk, “She doesn't know what she is saying.”

Sansa looks out of the window, crossing her arms over her belly. She is so large at this stage that she could probably carry things at the top of her stomach if she wanted to.

“How do you think I feel, dad?” she asks, not looking at him, “I'm the one having these babies. I'm the one who had to quit her job and move her entire life to come here, whilst having a high-risk pregnancy. All because you asked me to. Do you think I'm not stressed? Or scared? Do you think I don't wake up in the middle of the night, soaking with sweat because I just had a nightmare that I lost all of my babies? You know my history, you of all people should understand how I’m terrified. I don’t want to lose them as I lost...” She touches her necklace, her nails catching on the gold stars, and swallows down a sob.

Her father sighs, “I know. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound so insensitive.” Sansa turns to him and sees him, his old and tired face, the wrinkles on his skin, “Your mother is of her own generation, of her own culture. We, northerners, have relations with the Free Folk for thousands of years, but it's different in the south. Your mother grew up in the Riverlands, you know that, hearing stories about their savagery, their barbarities and who knows what else. Try to forgive her, love. Please.”

The babies move inside her. They have been more active over the past week, springing initial kicks and stretches in her womb. Sansa had read that first-time mothers would only feel movements after the sixteenth week, but she supposes it's different when there are multiple fetus growing at the same time. With her, it started at twelve weeks. Sansa doesn’t even want to know how they will be at sixteen or twenty-eight.

She likes to feel them. It reminds her of how they are alive, how they need her to be calm, to be good. So she takes a deep breath and nods, relaxing her entire body.

“I'm not sure I can handle being in a car with her, though,” says Sansa, sitting on the bed.

“Don't worry about that,” her father answers, “She'll understand."

Sansa rubs her hand against her forehead. She's so tired, so achy. Sometimes, all she wants to do is climb underneath her covers and hide until the quints are born; chubby, healthy and term babies. She'd gladly carry them to forty weeks if she could. It didn't matter if she had to spend the final three months on bed rest, or if she ended up losing her uterus in the process. Baby A, B, C, D, and E are all that matters.

But she can't. Sansa knows she can't. Her mother was right. There is much to do.

“It's unfortunate that she acted that way,” Sansa starts, acting coy, “I was kind of looking forward to doing a shopping spree for them today.”

Her father smiles and, as if on cue, pulls his wallet from his back pocket, taking out a blue plastic card and handing it to her. “The password is Missy's nameday.”

“Thanks, daddy,” she answers, smiling, “Can I take one of the cars?”

Ned Stark looks at her with a meaningful stare, as if he can see right through her innocent expression. Sansa doesn’t let herself be affected by it, continuing to smile and blink her eyes.

“Of course, darling,” he says, standing up, “Take the Audi.”

He leaves and Sansa waits for a few seconds, before standing up and grabbing a purse with all of her things, plus a heavier gray coat. She is out of the front door in less than five minutes.

* * *

Sansa leans forward, sticking her head out of the window, “Can I get two cheeseburgers, large fries, and large cheese fries?”

“ _Two cheeseburgers, one large fries, and one large cheese fries,”_ the mechanical voice answers back, a man standing on the other side of the microphone, typing down her order, “ _Anything else?”_

“A chocolate shake.” Sansa looks at the menu on the side of the machine, considering her options, “Oh, and that fried apple pie. Looks delicious.”

“ _Alright_ .” She can hear him typing and a humming, whirring noise, probably from the metal box after spending hours outside during a cold autumn day. “ _That’ll be thirty-five silver stags, ma’am. Form of payment?”_

“Cash,” Sansa answers.

“ _Ok. Payment and pick up in the next station.”_

“Thank you so much,” she says, already driving ahead. Sansa is so hungry, her stomach churning and growling so much that she had to delay the drive to the second store on her list for a quick snack to get through the day.

She looks to the back, where seemingly a nursery exploded all over the leather seats with bags and bags of clothes, boxes of swings and a pile of blankets. Her morning had been quite busy and she knew her afternoon would be just as easy.

The woman in the next station seems a little taken back by the emptiness of passengers, surely expecting more than one person to have ordered such a large amount of food. Sansa doesn’t let herself be affected by the shock, she is pregnant after all and there is no need for her to prove herself to anyone else. She only pays her bill and takes her food, putting the two bags on the passenger’s side next to her. The smell of cheese fills the car in seconds and she almost moans, such is the hunger inside of her.

“Enjoy, kids,” she says, shoving fries into her mouth, “This is for you.”

Sansa eats her food quietly, taking advantage of red lights and traffic to enjoy her meal more slowly than she would’ve if she needed to pay attention ahead. Her fries are the first to go, then it’s the apple pie and the burgers. Sansa saves the shake to the end, as sort of finishing touch to her lunch.

She shoves the trash inside the bags, planning to throw it away when she leaves the car eventually and continues driving. There’s been an accident on an important avenue, so the traffic is quite bad on that particular day.

A song blasts through the speakers, one that she doesn’t particularly know the name of, and Sansa taps her fingers against the steering wheel on the rhythm, bopping her head ever so slightly.

She is so distracted that she almost doesn’t notice it, realizing it a second before it’s too late. There’s a sept on her left side, big and grandious, the way septs are supposed to be. The stained glass shine against the sunlight and men and women enters its walls, looking for a place to be pray.

Sansa changes directions without even thinking about, her entire body being on autopilot, and she is parked in the front of the holy building before she can question her decisions. There is a septa standing near her, welcoming the people and shaking their hands. Sansa stares at her for half a second before unbuckling her seatbelt and getting out of the car.

Her mother believes in the Faith of the Seven, the most widespread religion in Westeros about one god with seven aspects, while her father follows his ancestor’s faith, the Old Gods, nameless deities of stone, rain, and leaves. Sansa had been raised with both beliefs and she believed in both of them equally, but… Since marrying Jon, she had neglected the New Gods and they had both agreed to raise their children in the old way, _his_ way.

He wasn’t a bad influence, but it wouldn’t hurt to make an offering to her mother’s gods.

“Welcome, sister,” the septa says, opening her arms, “You must be new. I don’t recognize your face. Let me help you, yes?”

Sansa looks around. There is a choir, singing a song in High Valyrian that she can’t understand and people pray underneath the statues of the Seven, down on their knees with their heads bent down, asking for their blessing and guidance. The only lighting comes from the sunlight shining through the stained glass and the thousands of candles that burn around her, each one representing a person, a belief, a life.

They enter the Sept together, the septa’s hands on Sansa’s shoulders. Their entrance goes unnoticed by the other attendants.

“Could you give me five candles, please?” Sansa asks, stopping in front of the altar of the Mother, her heart beating wildly in her chest.

“Five?” the Septa questions and Sansa nods, “Of course. Wait here, please.”

Sansa stands, awkwardly, beneath the intense gaze of the Mother. She seems to be studying her, as if trying to determine if she’s worthy of carrying those babies, of birthing them and seeing them grow in front of her eyes. _I am. I know I am._

The septa returns carrying five candles, a wide smile on her chubby face. She hands them to Sansa before leaving, certainly to attend to someone else in need of her services. Sansa takes a deep breath, relaxing her shoulders, and turns, walking towards the altar. The statue is standing tall above her, a sleeping infant cuddled into her right arm as her left stretches forward, as if her touch is meant to reach the person praying beneath her.

There is a tiny glass cup full of unlit matches and Sansa takes one of them, using a nearby candle to light it. The fire sparks and grows quickly, burning through the match, but she manages to light each individual wick, placing them together in a single line.

Sansa drops to her knees, clasping her hands together. _Mother Above, I pray for the survival of my children, not yet born, but already in my heart. I pray that you deliver them safely from my womb, as you have for myself and my husband. Please, Great Mother, protect my children. My Mya, my Brandon, my Torrhen, my unnamed twins. I can’t lose another child. I will not survive. Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray, stay the swords and stay the arrows, let them know a better day. Gentle Mother, strength of women, help our daughters through this fray, soothe the wrath and tame the fury, teach us all a kinder way._ Sansa whispers the last part of her prayer, hoping that the song will make the goddess more amicable to her cause.

She prays until her knees hurt, until her head is heavy with thirst and hunger and until her five candles have burned down. She prays and pray, but still. Nothing seems to calm the anxiety pooling in her belly.

* * *

Winterfell had been built around the ruins of an old fortress, the ancient seat of House Stark, where Kings in the North ruled over their wintery court. The ruins held one of the few godswoods still standing after ten centuries, a sacred place to many in her land.

Her father drives quietly into the night, a focused expression on his face. Sansa doesn't dare to say anything, afraid to break the thin and fragile glass of the situation that they were in.

It's late, but that was the only time that her father could spare to pray with her, and she'll take anything that she can get with him these days.

Sansa remembers her father driving them to the ruins, her and her siblings. She remembers listening intently to his stories about the kings and queens of the past, their glory and noble lives so attractive to her young mind. The White Wolf, who saved the North from the Others; Bael the Bard, who stole a winter rose right under her father's nose; so many men and women with their own little lives, trailing a path that would lead to her birth. She liked being the descendant of kings, a princess in her own right.

“Do you know a doctor Wolkan?” she asks, turning to him.

Her father blinks a few times, puckering his face, thinking. “No. Why?”

“He's going to be my new obstetrician,” Sansa explains, “Apparently, he's this big expert on multiples and high-risk pregnancies. Brought a dozen quadruplets into this world, if my investigation was correct.”

Her father hums, scratching his chin.

“Jon and I are going to see him on Monday,” she continues, “Maybe we'll finally learn the genders.”

“Ah,” her father says, smiling, “We can see my four little grandsons, then?”

Her father knows about Sansa's dream, how she is so sure that Baby A is a girl who shall be named Mya, with brown hair and blue eyes.

“There are more girls in here,” she replies, adjusting in the seat. Torrhen has his legs sticking against her spine, kicking her back, "If you must know."

“And how do you know?” her father asks as he parks.

“A mother always knows,” Sansa says, smiling, “Plus I have a bet with Arya.”

“Really?” Her father laughs, getting out of the car, “What is at stake here?”

“If there are more boys than girls, Arya will buy the car seats for us,” she explains, also leaving the car, “If there are more girls, she’ll buy the strollers.”

“And why are you so keen on having more girls?” he asks.

“Strollers are more expensive than car seats.”

They enter the ruins in silence; it was so quiet there, unlike the busy city behind them, that Sansa could hear snowflakes falling around her, gathering electricity on their way down towards the cold hard ground. Her father goes first, the familiar way leading him to the godswood, but Sansa stays behind, looking at the crumbled walls that once were the most secure castle in all of the North, her family’s ancestral seat.

There is a hall whose tapestries still remain after a thousand years, their corners chewed down by moths and insects over the centuries, though the cold served to preserve their beauty. Sansa feels drawn to it, her feet walking there without her command as if there is something that the gods want her to see before she prays, the moonlight shining through the walls on the stones.

She ghosts her fingers over the fabric, lightly touching the embroidery, the fear that she could ruin something older than herself if she was not careful enough pulling her back. Most of the art portrays wolves as voracious predators, running on open fields, hunting and killing their enemies, a symbol of House Stark's might and power, but there is one that attracts Sansa's eye, where instead of canines tearing into open gashes, with nuzzles drenched in blood, a female licks her young, her red fur shining in copper threads.

As if she knows exactly what to do, Sansa pulls the corner of the tapestry away from the wall, revealing a hidden portrait underneath it. Paintings are not common on this part of Westeros, being a southron tradition before the invention of the camera, but still. There is no reason why it should be hidden, away from the eyes of visitors and historians looking to uncover the secrets of Winterfell.

Though grime and dirt have covered most of the portrait, it’s still possible to see the image reflected on it. A woman, staring straight into the viewer, has her pale breast bared, using it to feed a silver-haired babe cradled between her arms. The woman has striking blue eyes and auburn hair, with high cheekbones. She’s beautiful. There is no writing on the painting to reveal who is she, but there is a crown atop her head, and Sansa knows that she must have been a queen.

Sansa releases the tapestry, letting it flap wildly before settling down on its original place. She turns around and resumes her walk towards the godswood.

Winterfell’s godswood remains largely untouched by time, with snow falling on its grounds covered by a thousand-centuries worth of humus, the packed woods closing in around her. She feels secure there, as if the gods themselves have their arms around her, protecting her and the babies. Somehow, Sansa thinks that if she gave birth there, there would be nothing to worry about, no fear about their size or if they were too preterm, even the cold wouldn’t be a problem, because they were Starks and part Free Folk, as well. Ice would run in their veins, instead of the warm blood of those south of the Neck. But she knows that it’s not possible.

“I wondered where you went,” her father says, kneeling by the heart tree.

Sansa smiles, walking to him. Her father offers a hand to help her get down and she takes it, dropping down to her knees by his side. The heart tree stares down at her, its weeping eyes covered by blood-red sap and she feels its welcome around herself, a feeling of familiarity and home settling on her lower stomach. _My daughter,_ the tree seems to say, _my prodigal daughter returned home, with five northern children growing in her belly._

Trees don’t talk, but everyone said that the gods can see through their sad and wise eyes, that the sigh of the wind and the rustle of leaves are the old gods speaking back to worshippers.

Sansa drops her head down, feeling the snow melt between her legs, seeping into her pants and skin, but the freezing ice is not a bother. She can feel, underneath all of that cold water and rotting leaves older than her family, the hot springs of Winterfell, gushing underneath the ground.

 _I was married here,_ Sansa thinks, remembering the day where her father walked her down those woods, a gown of white pristine cloth covering her skin and a wide smile on her face. _There is nothing to worry about._

She prays. Sansa begs for the protection of her children, offering her own life for their safekeeping; she asks for the safe return of her husband who is on his way north. She prays with her father by her side well into the morning, rest and food a faraway thing on her mind. She prays and prays and prays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is this a reincarnation story now????? who knows? certainly not me
> 
> this chapter came a little quicker because i had a lot of it already ready when i posted the previous one, so i dont know when the next one will come
> 
>  
> 
> after the next chapter is up, i will start writing a sequel so dont worry about how can i cram everything into one piece.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa deals with the Targaryens.

**_Rhaegar Targaryen comments on his son's growing family: “It's sad.”_ **

_Rhaegar Targaryen, 64, has released an official statement regarding his youngest son, Jon Snow, and his refusal to allow the patriarch to see his unborn children in the near future. “Ever since I learned about his existence, I have always tried to bond with Jon, to be as good a father as I was to Rhaenys and Aegon, may the Seven guard him, but he's too stubborn. His mother poisoned his mind against me, made him think I was a monster. It's sad, very sad.”_

_Lyanna Snow, 52, is a former environmental activist and defender of the rights of the Wildlings who retreated to her tribe after an affair with the Targaryen mogul that led to her pregnancy at the age of sixteen._

_“I paid for his education, for his insurance, everything,” Rhaegar has also said during a press conference on Monday, where he commented on his company's plans to expand to Sothoryos in the fall. "I hope he'll see reason one day, and realize how much I do for this family._ ".

* * *

Sansa looks at her image reflected against the mirror, analyzing her body with a careful eye, pinpointing the flaws and mistakes on her vision. Stretch marks, swollen legs, dark patches, hair growing around her skin. Sweat. So much sweat.

"I'm not glowing," she complains, almost whining, "This isn't a glow. I'm a fat, disgusting mess."

"I think you look great," Jon says, sitting on the bed, typing away at his computer. He arrived in the morning, napping away the tiredness of the trip during the entire day, barely giving Sansa any time to enjoy her husband. Though it hadn't even been a week since she last saw him, being away from Jon is torture as if half of her soul and heart had stayed in King's Landing with him. Being reunited made her feel complete again.

The dogs are in a similar mood as Jon's. Ghost is sprawled on his cushion, tongue lolled out as he snores and Lady, who didn't even have the strength to walk to her own bed, naps on the floor, laying on her back.

"Of course you do," answers Sansa, "I'm pregnant with your children. I'm a walking symbol of your manhood, your dominance. I could put a plaque on my neck that says, 'Jon Snow is a really good fucker'."

"You could," he starts, frowning at her, "But you shouldn't."

Sansa frowns, looking at herself. Though the North is starting to creep closer and closer to winter, she feels hotter than ever, preferring to sleep wearing only panties, because bras were too rough on her sore breasts.

Jon, however, is still a normal human being and he accepted his faith, going to sleep in his thickest pajamas, plus a heavy winter coat. Her poor husband is doing anything to please his pregnant wife.

Sansa climbs into bed beside him, wrapping her body as much as she can around him. Jon puts his laptop down, neglecting his work in favor of hugging her better. He rubs her scalp, caressing her hair with his hands and Sansa hums, pleased, leaning into his touch.

"I was thinking about names today," he murmurs, "I like Willem for a boy."

"Willem is nice," Sansa responds, closing her eyes. She could fall asleep like this, using his body as a support for her belly. It wasn't so hard to breathe or be comfortable around him. "I like Tommen. It matches, kind of."

Jon's hands stop in its tracks, a strand of hair sticking to his fingers.

"Isn't that the name of one of those Lannister kids?" he asks, suspicious.

"No," answers Sansa, barely masking her lie.

Jon laughs and Sansa pushes him away, trying to kick him off the bed. Jon laughs even more at this, kissing her shin, rubbing his beard on her legs. "You're funny," he says.

"You're stupid," she answers, "Get off my bed."

Sansa uses her legs to push him, but Jon is stronger than her and he only grabs her ankles, pulling her down to the other side of the bed. He climbs over her until his head is perched over her swollen belly, his nose a few inches away from her bellybutton. He pins her down using his own weight and she is helpless against him.

"I yield," she laughs, breathless, "I yield!"

Jon smiles, pressing kisses against her stomach and one of the babies kicks him, chasing his hand with their foot. Sansa touches his hair, caressing his head with her hands, wondering which child is saying Hello. Jon hums, leaning into her touch, and she figures this is the perfect time to ask him.

"We need to talk," says Sansa, straightforward.

Jon doesn't even open his eyes, he only continues tracing patterns into her belly, "About what?"

"About Rhaegar."

Her husband opens his eye at that, shock blooming on his face, and he sits up, pulling her shirt down.

"Why do we need to talk about him?"

Sansa blinks, suddenly feeling very cold without his touch, and fixes her posture, looking into his eyes and seeing distrust in the gray irises. He has never looked at her in such a way.

"Because he is your father," she answers.

Jon scoffs, "Rhaegar is only my father when it suits him."

Sansa bites the inside of her cheek, trying to think quicker than her mind can work. She crawls to Jon, crossing the bed in her path, and sits on his lap, circling his neck with her arms. He doesn't push her away, thank the Gods, and she takes it as an encouragement.

"You never told me what happened between the two of you," Sansa whispers, "If I'm bringing children into the middle of a family field, I deserve to know."

She half expects him to deny her outright, but Jon only nods, licking his chapped lips.

"In the reserve, no one cared that my mother had me out of wedlock, so I didn't care either," he starts, hugging her by the waist, "I was one of them. They taught me how to talk, how to hunt, how to survive in the wilderness. I had half a hundred fathers and half a hundred mothers. That was my life." Jon takes a deep breath, steadying himself. "I wondered, though. I used to look at every man's face, trying to see myself in them; I even asked a couple of them if they were my father, but no one knew who he was. My mom said he was an old boyfriend who died of frostbite and that was enough for little old me." Sansa laughs, stroking his ear, encouraging him to continue. "When I was fifteen after Aegon died, Rhaegar came to the reserve and told me to come with him. He had paperwork awarding him custody of me and I was forced to leave my whole life behind. My mom, my culture, my community, my family. All of it was gone in a second. I couldn't even speak the Common Tongue at the time and yet he didn't care."

Jon stops, recovering his breath, and Sansa doesn’t say anything. Her heart breaks for him, young and scared, being taken away from everything that he has ever known by a man that only wanted to use him. Jon needs love, he needs affection and warmth. Rhaegar Targaryen is unable to do anything that does not go accordingly to his own selfish desires. Sansa is glad that she has never had the displeasure to meet him, with him not being invited to their wedding and such.

“He never cared about me,” Jon continues, “Still doesn’t. All Rhaegar cares is power and that such power remains in the hands of the family. Fire and Blood, as the old Targaryens used to say. I was his last living son and suddenly I was worthy of being by his side, all because Aegon was driving drunk that fateful night. I lived in King’s Landing, with tutors and boarding schools where everyonecalled me a half breed, because my mother is a wildling, suffering every day, praying to the Gods for a chance to return home to her, but she was right. The old gods don’t listen to prayers done in the south. Did you know I couldn’t even call her? I was forced to sneak around, saving money for public phones booth or begging my grandmother to help me. Rhaella was the only one who never treated me with anything but affection.” He closes his eyes and old memories play behind his eyelids. A tiny wrinkle forms between his brows worry seeping into his face. “When I was eighteen, I managed to convince him to let me attend a university in the North where I changed my phone number and worked my ass off to support myself without having to ask him for help. I still don’t know how, but I did it. After three years, I was finally free of him. I could return home if I wanted to, and trust me, Sansa, I did want to. The day I met you, do you remember?, was the day I realized I had saved up enough money to go back to the reserve and I fell hopelessly in love, so I had to make a choice. My old life or you.”

“Sorry,” she whispers, nuzzling his neck.

“Oh, love, don’t be sorry. I don’t regret my decision. I wasn’t the same Jon that had left, I couldn’t return and stay there forever.” He pulls her head up, staring straight into her eyes, and she fees the love in his gaze, burning right through her, “You are the love of my life, Sansa Stark. You have always been and always will be. I will not let anyone, including Rhaegar, harm you and our children. I promise.”

His gape is intense, unwavering, and she knows that he means every single word.

 

* * *

Doctor Wolkan is a tiny, fat man, with a balding head and a kind smile. He dresses in a blue, checkered shirt, as the office’s heater makes the use of a winter coat futile, and a lab coat. He asks her a hundred questions, about her health, her weight gain, morning sickness, and tiredness. He draws a vial of blood for testing and measures her belly, which is a whopping two inches bigger in circumference than in her last measurement. Sansa doesn’t even want to know how she will look like at the end of the pregnancy.

Jon asks him thousands of questions back as she lays down on the hospital bed, pulling her blue blouse up, and doctor Wolkan smiles, nodding slightly as he answers, “Don’t worry, Mr. Snow. In ten weeks, your wife will be admitted to the hospital for a permanent bed rests and we will monitor the babies every day.”

Doctor Wolkan picks up his wand, squirting cold colorless gel in Sansa’s stomach. There is a large TV in front of her, with no need for her to miss anything of the ultrasounds, and she is glad for it. Doctor Wolkan turns on the machine and a gray, grainy image pops up. A leg, she thinks, stretching around, kicking other legs and arms, even a sibling's head seems to be in the limb’s way. Sansa can’t help but laugh. It seems Baby B will be a troublemaker.

“Coming up, we’ll just have a general look at the babies, see anything that might be troublesome,” he starts, “Kidneys look great on all five, as well as their brains. All functioning properly, nothing to worry about. Let’s hear a heartbeat, yes?” Wolkan presses a button and a sudden, thumping noise fill the room. _Bam, bam, bam, bam._ Five hearts working together, her children living, growing and thriving inside of her. “Sounds wonderful.”

“Can we learn the genders?” Sansa asks, turning her head away from the monitor and onto the doctor.

“Maybe,” doctor Wolkan says, “I’ll try. Their genitalia is already formed, so maybe they will be in a nice position to allow us a good vision.” He moves the wand around, frowning slightly. “Have you two thought about any names?”

“Yes,” Jon answers, “Three.”

“Mya, Brandon and Torrhen,” adds Sansa, “Mya is Baby A. Brandon and Torrhen if we happen to have male twins.”

“Ah, I see,” doctor Wolkan murmurs, “What will you do if Baby A is not a girl?”

Jon opens his mouth, confused, but Sansa beats him to it, quickly answering, “J.J.”

“J.J.?” the doctor repeats, “What does it mean?”

“Jon Junior,” says Sansa.

“Wow, that’s terrible,” Jon answers, holding back a laugh and Sansa would’ve hit him had they been alone, but they weren’t and doctor Wolkan merely smiles.

“Thank the Gods that Baby A is a girl then,” doctor Wolkan says, the image focusing on a tiny baby, her legs open in a way that shows an absence of a penis. Or rather, the presence of a vagina. Sansa’s heart swells with an uncontrollable love, the image of a blue-eyed brunette little girl covering her teary eyes. _Mya,_ she thinks, _I was right._

“I’m sorry,” she chokes out, brushing her cheeks and feeling them wet.

“Don’t worry,” doctor Wolkan murmurs, handing her a box of tissues, “Many women cry when finding their children’s genders. There is nothing to be ashamed of.”

Sansa nods, letting herself be soothed by his kind words and Jon’s touch on her arm, rubbing her skin in a relaxing way. She opens his eyes and sees that he is crying as well, smiling through his tears.

She takes a deep breath, drying her tears and messing up her mascara. Sansa tries to calm down. There are other children waiting for her.

Doctor Wolkan returns to his search, this time focusing on Baby D as their twin is too squished between their siblings to see without any interference, a sad side effect of having multiples. “What are we hoping for? More boys or more girls?”

“More girls,” answers Jon, “But we’ll be happy with anything that comes.”

“I understand,” Wolkan says, “Baby D is a girl as well, so that means Baby E is a girl too.” He shows them Baby D, touching her own face. She is a quiet one.

“Gods, we don’t even have names picked for them,” Sansa exclaims and her mind races, a thousand girl names passing through her thoughts.

“We have time,” Jon answers. He turns to the doctor, “Is it possible for them to be all girls?”

Doctor Wolkan nods, “It’s possible. It just hasn’t happened yet. The chances are extremely low.”

Jon looks at her and Sansa shrugs. The chances of two eggs splitting had been extremely low as well, but it happened. Maybe they’d have all girls, but she didn’t feel like it would happen to them. One family can only have so many rarities happening in their lifetime.

“That’s not happening, though,” doctor Wolkan says, “Baby B and Baby C are boys.”

Baby C is shown in the monitor, the ultrasound waves hitting on his small body and returning, being processed into an image of a tiny baby, with tiny legs, a tiny heart, and a big penis.

* * *

“Sarra?” Sansa says, stroking her belly, “No, too much like my own name. Barbrey?”

Jon puckers his face in disgust, shaking his head, “I met a Barbrey once. Hated her guts.”

Sansa sighs, sitting back on her seat. They are in the car, driving to her parents' house to pick up the last of their furniture before permanently moving into the townhouse, their forever home where they’ll raise their five children and be forever happy. Or so she hopes.

“Who knew naming five babies would be so difficult?” she asks, irritated.

“Hum, everyone,” Jon answers, “It’s hard to think of five names that you don’t absolutely despise.”

"Yeah," she agrees, "Maybe we'll ask my family for suggestions."

Jon steps on the breaks and the car comes to a sudden stop, its contents shaking wildly inside of it. Sansa turns to Jon, furious, "Are you fucking insane?"

"Are _you_?" he responds, "Do you seriously want your family to help us name the babies?"

Sansa looks to her sides as if it to make sure that they are still in the car, talking to each other and that this is not some weird dream of hers. Someone honks from behind them.

"Yes," she answers, "What's the problem? They named me. My name isn't so bad. I really like it."

He rolls his eyes as if she is being infantile. Another honk.

"Your family will turn this into a mess." He gesticulates wildly, trying to make a point. "Your dad will probably choose like an old, weird name that will get our child bullied and Bran will open a poll on his twitter account so his two million followers can have a say in this. No, I'm not doing this to our babies. Let's choose it right now."

The car behind them, undoubtedly tired of waiting, swerves around and drives ahead, making a rude gesture behind his window. Sansa ignores him. She sighs, rubbing a hand in her temple, and nods.

"Fine," she says, "At least, park the car so we don't get killed."

Jon is quick to obey, parking beneath a tall pine tree with an enormous shade. Sansa takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, trying to think.

"Maud?" she says.

"Sounds weird," he answers, "Wylla?"

"No, Robb had a girlfriend with that name. It'd be strange."

They stay there for almost an hour, throwing names back and forth, always finding something wrong with the options. Sansa lays back on her seat, closing her eyes slightly as sleep threatens to take over. She just wants to nap, why does her husband have to be so difficult?

"How about Alys?" he tries, turning the heater on.

Sansa opens her eyes. "I like Alys," she says, "Do we know an Alys? Why Alys?"

Jon shrugs.

"It's a small, simple and northern name," he answers, "She'll have enough problems as it is."

Sansa smiles, stroking her belly. The babies are quiet, maybe sleeping or just trying to listen in, wanting to know their own name. "Her sister will need a name that starts with an A as well, so it matches."

They've never talked about having similar names for their twins, but it happened with the boys. Brandon and Torrhen, old kings in the North who changed history in their lifetime, so it only makes sense for the same to happen to the girl twins. Alys and…

"Amma," Sansa whispers, "My aunt Lysa married this guy and he had a cousin or something named Aemma. I really liked her, like _really_."

Jon doesn't need any more explanation. He nods and kisses her temple, palming his hand on her belly. She leans into his touch, feeling his warmth on her skin and his adoration for her.

"I love you," whispers Sansa.

"I love you too," he whispers back.

* * *

The townhouse has four bedrooms, three of them being suites, and two bathrooms on the first floor. It's larger than their old house in King's Landing but smaller than her parents' mansion. Since Bran's accident, all of her family's properties are wheelchair accessible, so there's an elevator, but Sansa would rather not use it.

Moving in takes an entire day and she is not allowed to help in any way. Everyone is there, wanting to be of some assistance: Arya, Gendry and Missy; Bran and his boyfriend, even if he can't be of much use being in a wheelchair and all; Robb, Jeyne and the twins. Even Rickon is there, though he stays with his head stuck in a book all day, studying for finals.

"Three cribs here," says Sansa, leading Gendry, Robb, and Jon inside a room, "And the other two down the hall."

"Great," answers Gendry, stumbling after her, carrying a heavy-looking box in his hands, "The girls will share."

"Yes," Jon murmurs, "It doesn't sound fair to have Mya all by herself, especially when they are so young." He puts his own box on the ground, opening it with a pocket knife.

Sansa leaves the room, allowing the boys to begin their task. She checks on Arya, dusting a bathroom with; Jeyne and her mother are covering the master bedroom with green sheets and her father is in the living room with Bran and Jojen, talking more than doing anything.

"Should I order a pizza?" she asks, walking to them. It's starting to be late, the sun having set hours before. "Or maybe some takeout?"

She hears a yelp and turns around. Eddard is pulling on Lady's tail and her poor dog is looking at her in despair as if asking for help. Sansa quickly runs to them, separating them both, and coaxes Lady into the kitchen, more for her own safety than Eddard's.

"I like the pizza idea," her father answers when she returns, "My treat."

Sansa rolls her eyes, but nods, too tired to argue.

Her father orders the pizza and the boys come from upstairs, having finished setting up the cribs. Sansa lays down on the new couch, putting her feet up, and rubs her temple. She feels like shit, Amma and Brandon haven't given her a moment of respite the entire day, kicking, stretching and sticking their limbs in places where they don't belong.

"Jon said you have a color scheme planned out," her father murmurs, pushing a stuffed chair to her left side.

"Yes," Sansa responds, closing her eyes slightly, "Each baby has their own color."

"Why?" Bran asks. Arya and Missy have joined them, as well.

"Because the first baby you have after a miscarriage or stillbirth is called a rainbow baby," she explains, "I kind of divided the rainbow into five colors, that's all."

"Amma's red, Alys is yellow, Torrhen's green, Brandon's blue and Mya is purple," Sansa continues after a small break.

Before her family can respond, the doorbell rings and her father leaves with Robb in tow to get the pizzas. Jon sits by her side, pulling her legs over his lap and rubbing his thumb over her calf. He's been getting really good at giving massages.

"How are you?" he asks.

"The babies are really bothering me today," she answers, fiddling with his ear.

"Twelve more weeks to go," Jon says, "Then you'll be thirty weeks along and Doctor Wolkan will do a c-section."

"Ugh," she whispers, "Don't talk like that. They'll hear you and decided to be born next week."

Jon makes a face and she almost laughs, "They can't hear me."

"Yes, they can," Sansa answers, "The tiny bones inside their ears were formed in week fifteen."

"Weird."

Sansa makes frowns, raising an eyebrow, "It's not weird. It's nature at its finest. You're weird."

Her father and Robb return, but their hands are empty, with no pizza boxes or bottles of soda on their arms. Sansa is about to ask what is wrong when someone else enters the living room, a woman with long gray-streaked brown hair and a long, stern face. She is extremely familiar, not only because she had been invited and was a guest at Sansa's wedding, but because her son and living clone is sitting by her side. The woman is Lyanna Snow.

"Ma?" Jon starts, standing up. Lyanna smiles and opens her arms wide, inviting him for a hug.

She says something in the Old Tongue that Sansa's flimsy abilities can't recognize, but it sounds warm and loving.

"Common Tongue, ma. Please." Jon smiles and hugs his mother tightly "So everyone can understand you."

"Of course," Lyanna says. She greets her father, Bran and everyone else before coming near Sansa, opening her arms just as wide as she did with Jon, "Hello, dear."

Sansa hugs her goodmother, pressing her swollen belly against the woman. Lyanna smiles, stroking her ginger locks. Kissed by fire, the free folk call her, because of her red hair. Sansa had visited the reservation once before, after her wedding, and she had heard a fair share of bawdy comments from the men. She's considered a great beauty in their community and Jon's considered lucky for marrying her. Or stealing her, as they say.

"You look beautiful," Lyanna says, "Very pregnant."

Sansa smiles. She likes Lyanna.

"I feel very pregnant," she responds.

"Ma, forgive for me asking, but what are you doing here?" Jon asks, walking to them. Sansa can see her family watching them, pretending not to. Her mother has a weird expression on as if she's afraid that Lyanna will steal something.

"You are having five babies," she answers, a thick northern accent covering her words, "I am here to help."

Sansa doesn't say anything. Quickly, Jon jumps into the role of a good son, offering the guest bedroom for her, before Lyanna says that she'll happily take the couch. She is a free woman, after all, and if anyone tries to invade their house during the night, she'll be ready to protect them.

"There'll be no need for that, Mrs. Snow," her mother feels the need to say, "Winterfell is the safest city in the country. That's why my daughter decided to move back here."

Lyanna doesn't roll her eyes, but it's as if she has, dropping her bags on an empty couch, "I'm sure _my son_ only has good intentions on his mind when he decided to offer me the guest room, but there is never too much protection." She smiles, tightly, "Especially, with children on the way. I'll cook, I'll clean, I'll protect. There is no limit to what I'll do to make sure that Sansa and the children are happy and safe. Also, it's Miss Snow. I was never married."

Sansa smiles, but inside her heart is racing. Her mother already has enough problems with just one free man in her vicinity, how will she manage with two, about to be seven?

For some reason, Sansa doesn't think it'll go well.

* * *

Sansa moves her hand one way and then another, frowning in the dark. She feels the package, trying to find an opening as quietly as she can when suddenly a foil-like sound reverberates on the room and the lamp next to Jon's side lights up. He turns to her, a suspicious expression on his face.

She can only imagine how she looks. A shocked face, like a deer in headlights, both of her hands moving under the covers and a thin sheen of sweat covering her body.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"Masturbating," Sansa responds.

"That's a lie," Jon says, serious, "You can't masturbate. An orgasm could trigger early labor." He pokes her in the side. "Show me."

Guilty, Sansa takes her hands out from underneath the cover, revealing a small package of KitKat. She hasn't managed to get it open yet, so it's still full.

"Why are you hiding chocolate?" Jon asks. He's not upset or even surprised

"I didn't want to share," admits Sansa.

The corners of Jon's mouth turn upwards as if he's trying to stifle a burst of laughter.

"Oh, Sansypants," he starts, sounding very fatherly, "You're about to become a mother. Don't you know that sharing is caring?"

"Fuck you," she answers, opening the KitKat and shoving all of its contents into her mouth, "I'm sharing with your kids."

Jon laughs, pulling her by the waist.

* * *

_Dear Mrs. Snow,_

_In light of the recent events regarding your, shall we say extraordinary, pregnancy and your husband's arguments with his parental family, we'd be interested in conducting an interview with you and your husband._

_The interview would be controlled by you, so no uncomfortable questions will be aired. We only want to give you an opening to say your own version of the story._

_Best regards,_

_Winter News_

* * *

Sansa rubs her temple, exhausted and nauseous. It seems that every move, every smell, and every taste makes her throw up and she can't handle this anymore. _Eleven more weeks to go_ , she tells herself, repeating it like a mantra in her head, _I just need to get to thirty weeks. Just thirty weeks and I'll be done with it._ _I'll have the children and this fucking nausea will go away._

Lyanna sets a mug in front of her, filled with a thick greenish liquid. Sansa stares at it in disgust.

"What's that?" she asks.

"Tea," Lyanna says, plainly.

"This is definitely not tea," Sansa responds, "Just tell me what it does."

"It helps with bone health." Lyanna walks to the stove, where she is preparing what appears to be lunch, "Drink it."

Sansa takes a sip, not wanting to upset her goodmother, and then downs all of the liquid in one go. Jon's at work, his first day at a new university, and they have been keeping each other company for hours now.

"Good girl," Lyanna murmurs, biting into an apple.

Sansa sets her head down on the cold kitchen table, feeling the ice seep into her burning skin. She's so hot all the time now, always sweating.

"Go take a nap," Lyanna says, pulling her hair away from her sweaty neck. A cold air swirls around her, giving her some kind of relief.

"I'm fine," Sansa responds, "I just need to rest a little bit."

"Exactly. Go nap." Lyanna's voice is not demanding, but kind, understanding even. "I'll take care of everything."

"Alright." Sansa gets up on shaky legs and walks upstairs. The doors to the babies' bedroom is open since they have been doing some paint jobs on the walls, which allows the colors to dry faster.

She lays on the bed, Ghost jumping after her. Sansa hugs him, nuzzling his soft fur, and she is snoring within five minutes.

When she wakes up, the curtains are drawn but she can see that it's already dark outside. How many hours did she sleep? Ghost is sitting on the bed, protectively staring at the door.

Sansa gets up, putting a robe over her body and slipping in her soft sandals. The house is quiet, but, as she walks down the stairs, she can see that the kitchen's light is on, so she goes there.

Two people are talking in another language, Jon and Lyanna she is sure, and they almost seem to be arguing. Sansa takes careful steps towards them, the mediator role covering her entire body, and sees how bad the situation is.

Lyanna is holding a spoonful of some kind of meat, a bowl right in front of her, as Jon sits by her side. They are talking in high voices and every time Jon opens his mouth, Lyanna tries to shove the spoon inside of it.

"What is going on here?" Sansa asks and they both turn to me.

Jon points to his mother, "She keeps trying to feed me."

“How can you take care of your wife and children if you are so thin?” Lyanna asks, serious.

“No, ma, no means no,” Jon responds, angry, “You know I hate this.”

Lyanna looks at her bowl which is full of some kind of soup, square pieces of meat floating around the brown water. Sansa stares at it for what like feels for hours, hypnotized by it. “Just a little bit, for mama.”

Jon opens his mouth to retort her words with something, but Sansa quickly comes between them, sitting by his side.

“I’ll try,” she says, staring the soup with her mouth full of water.

“See,” Lyanna says, handing Sansa the spoon, “Your wife is sensible.”

“My wife is a self-feeding machine that knows no limits to what the human body can stand,” Jon replies, angry.

Sansa doesn’t answer to the rest of the conversation, too busy with eating the soup, garfing down on the warm liquid, feeling it settle on her lower stomach. Gods, it’s so good. Lyanna leaves, taking her bowl to fill with it more soup as Jon stares at his mother, both upset and disgusted.

“I’m leaving,” he says, standing up, “I need to answer some emails from my students.”

For the rest of the next two hours, Sansa eats the soup, ending with all of it by herself, Lyanna happily staring at her. Her goodmother is leaning her head on her hand, drinking a glass of milk.

“Jon’s funny,” she says, finishing her drink, “He hated this even as a babe. Whenever I tried feeding it to him, he’d spit out.”

“Yes,” Sansa answers, “He is very peculiar.”

“He’s lucky to have you by his side,” Lyanna continues, “When he was young, he fancied this girl from our tribe. Ygritte. But it’s not good to marry someone from your own clan.”

“Why not?” Sansa asks.

“If you marry your kin, you offend the gods,” she explains, “It makes your blood sick. A wife born from afar will strengthen your family, bring fresh and strong blood into your clan.”

Sansa fiddles with her spoon, playing with the leftover liquid that can not be held. “Is that why you had an affair with Rhaegar? Because he was from afar?”

Lyanna frowns, but she’s not as offended as Sansa expected she’d be.

“I had an affair with Rhaegar because I was young and stupid,” she says, serious, “Because I thought that making him love me would mean that his company would start having more concern about my people and the world, but I was wrong. Rhaegar didn’t love me. He can’t love anyone, but himself.” She leans forward, palming her hand against Sansa’s swollen stomach and a baby kicks her, chasing the warmth. “Targaryens are odd. I knew it as soon as I met them. The blood of Old Valyria is evil, toxic. When I was carrying my son, I was afraid that Jon would be just like his father and his fucked up family. I prayed every day that my little boy would be born as a free man, not a valyrian. And the gods answered my prayers. Jon is kind and good. He loves his people, he loves the world and he loves you. I know your children will be the same. I have seen it.”

Sansa smiles and she puts her own hand over Lyanna’s.

“I never said this to you,” Sansa starts, “But I love you, Lyanna. Truly. I couldn’t have asked for a better goodmother.”

Lyanna smiles back and she opens her arms, pulling Sansa into a hug. “I love you too, dear.”

* * *

Sansa closes her hand around the mug of hot chocolate in front of her, feeling the warmth seep into her mittens-covered hands. It’s so cold that day that it almost feels like winter, fresh and white snow falling around the city. Arya invited her to a fresh and warm brunch at her apartment and there is no way Sansa could refuse that. She takes a sip of her cocoa and it almost burns her tongue, but she swallows it before it can, the liquid marking a hot trail to her stomach.

“How are you feeling?” her sister asks, setting a plate of eggs and bacon at the table.

“Well,” Sansa responds, “What about you?”

Arya looks at Missy, who is playing with her dolls on the floor, wearing a purple winter coat and a wool hat. Even though they have a working heating system and all of the windows are closed, it still feels like the cold is invading the apartment.

“I’m fine,” she says, taking a sip of her own hot chocolate, “Gendry got a promotion at his job.”

“That’s amazing,” Sansa says, picking up a bagel and spreading cream cheese around it.

“Yes, it’s great.” Arya smiles.

“Jon has been teasing me lately, he keeps saying that all of our girls will be tomboys and that scares me,” says Sansa.

“Wow, sexist much?” Arya jokes.

“No, it’s not that,” she says, “I’m just… I’ve always wanted a daughter to dress up like a little princess and I’m having three girls so of course, I wish that at least one will be girly just like me. I wouldn’t mind if the others are tomboys if I can just have my little fashionista.”

Arya rolls her eyes, “San, you’re so stupid.”

“What? Why?” Sansa frowns, extremely confused.

“Because children aren’t just one thing,” her sister explains, taking her hand in a soothing manner, “Look at Missy. She likes horror movies and skateboard around with her dad, but she also loves to dance and to wear dresses. I’m saving up money to put her in ballet classes and Gendry’s mom gave her a monster truck last year for her birthday. Children are complex beings, since they are, well, humans. You can have a princess who likes to play with dolls and wear lipstick just as you can have a little ballerina who enjoys getting her knees skinned every other week.”

Sansa smiles and a weight lifts off her chest, allowing her to breath easier, “Thanks, Arya. I don’t know what I’d without you.”

When they were children, Sansa and her sister never got along, but over the years, a sense of understanding settled between them. They left the childhood differences behind them to become close friends, sharing secrets and whatnot.

“You wouldn’t survive without me,” Arya responds, “I’m too smart.”

Sansa smiles, but she doesn’t answer. It’s better if she doesn’t. They are older, yes, and more mature, but they are still sisters.

* * *

Sansa is folding clothes when it happens, organizing the drawers of onesies that her babies will need once they are released from the hospital when her butt starts vibrating. She fishes her phone out of her back pocket and holds it against her ear, not looking to who is the caller.

"Hello?" she says as Jon enters the bedroom, carrying a box filled to the brim with five of every toy in existence: five stuffed bears; five rattles; five toy rabbits and so many other things. He stares at her, quizzically, but she points to the phone.

 _"Hello,"_ a soft, female voice answers. It has a high pitched tone, almost as if the caller is always surprised, _"Is this Sansa Stark?"_

"Who asks?"

"Who is it?" Jon asks and she shrugs.

_"I_ _'m Daenerys. I'm a relative of your husband."_

Sansa sighs, rubbing her forehead with the palm of her free hand, "Look, Daenerys, I don't know how you got this number, but I'd appreciate it if you don't call me ever again."

 _" I'm sorry, Sansa, but that won't be possible,"_ Daenerys continues, _"I_ _understand how confused you must be. Jon has fed you lies and you don't know who to believe, only that you want the best for your children. We do too. My brother is a simple man with simple desires. He knows that you and Jon will face money problems down the road and he is willing to pay for any expense that you might have if you allow him to be present for the birth and to see his grandchildren at least twice a year."_

"It's Daenerys?" Jon asks and she nods, "Fuck, give me the phone. Let me talk to her."

“ _s that Jon I hear?”_ Daenerys asks, _“Tell him I said hi. Sansa, I pray that you see reason. You’re unemployed and Jon is a history professor. What do you think will happen when your child has an illness and you must deal with medical bills? Or when they need to go to school? Will you seriously send them to a public school? My brother wants to help, he wants to be a part of these children’s lives.”_ Daenerys makes a pause and Sansa can almost imagine that she is smiling from the other end of the call, her pale cheeks pulling with maliciousness. _“Talk to Jon about it, make him understand… and ask him what we did when we were teenagers.”_

The call ends as quickly as it started. Sansa stares at her phone, at the black screen, trying to find answers in the shattered glass. Jon walks carefully towards her, touching her shoulders in what she thinks is supposed to be a soothing manner, but only makes her anxiety skyrocket.

 _And ask him what we did when we were teenagers._ What could she possibly mean by that?

Sansa looks at Jon, at his long face and gray eyes, and sees a stranger, not her husband.

“What did she say?” he asks, nervous, “Sansa? Baby? What did she say?”

“She said… she said…” Sansa swallows and suddenly she can’t breathe, “She said to ask you what you two did when you were teenagers.”

Jon takes a step back, shocked, and he drops his face. He looks around, perhaps trying to see an opening to run, and licks his lips. Sansa sits down on a rocking chair, a blue onesie still held tight by her hand, and the babies move inside her as if trying to escape the turmoil that has become her body.

“Did you… did you have an affair with her?” Sansa asks, careful.

He sighs, “It’s not like that.”

 _It’s,_ he said, _it is._ Not it was, as if this is something that is still happening. Sansa takes a deep breath, putting her own hand over her belly. _Calm down_ , she tells herself, _calm down. The babies need you to be calm._

“Explain it to me,” she says.

Jon kneels by her side and takes her hand, rubbing his thumb over her palm, “The old Targaryens used to marry within the family, to keep the blood pure or whatever, and Daenerys… Daenerys is a strong believer in that. My father may have brainwashed her to believe in the superiority of their family, but she has her own fair share of problems.” He looks up to her face and Sansa holds his gaze, “When I was seventeen and she was sixteen, she tried to… tried to hook up with me. I refused, of course, but she got it in her mind that we belong together. I don’t know why, but she thinks that we have something of a destiny as the last Targaryens, even though Rhaenys is still alive. She said this to upset you, but if it was to make you distrust me or even lose the babies, I can’t say, but I know that Daenerys is as dangerous as Rhaegar. I don’t want our children near them.”

Sansa nods and takes his hands, “I trust you. This happened before we even met, so I have no reason to be upset. I just wish you’d have told me about it before since you told me about Ygritte and Val.”

“I know,” he says, dropping his head to her lap, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to tell you, I didn’t want you to think I was a freak.”

“I would never think that of you,” Sansa responds, “I’m too in love.”

Jon smiles and he gets on his knees, kissing her lips. Sansa sighs, leaning into him, and allowing herself to be embraced, to have his arms around her. Daenerys tried to come between them, but Sansa is thirty-two. She will not be ruled by jealousy and petty hate.

“I think we should do the interview,” she says after what feels like hours, “To show them that we will not be scared into submission.”

Jon nods, but says nothing.

“I don’t care what they say,” she whispers, “You’re not a dragon. You’re a wolf. Our children will be pups, not eggs.”

He kisses her again then, fully and delicious. Jon licks into her mouth, coaxing her tongue out, and she sighs, almost forgetting that they can’t go any further than innocent kisses. When they stop, he leans their foreheads together, holding her neck with his right hand, rubbing her hairline.

“Amma, Alys, Mya, Brandon, and Torrhen,” Sansa whispers. Their lips are so close that her breath hits him and then returns to her face, carrying her words with it, “They will be here in ten weeks and we must have dealt with your father by then.”

Jon nods, “I will, I promise.”

* * *

A makeup artist fiddles with a brush, a light brown-tinged powder dying the tips of those synthetic hairs. Sansa closes her eyes, allowing the woman to apply the eyeshadow on her eyelids, while another one curls her hair.

“You have a very pale complexion,” one of them says.

“Yes,” Sansa responds, “I can never go into the sun, otherwise I’ll get burnt.”

“It must have been awful living in King’s Landing, then,” the other one murmurs.

“It was,” agrees Sansa, “But I’m here now. Where I belong.”

Sansa smiles and they continue with their work, silent until they are done. She can hear Jon sitting in another room, talking with his mother in their own language, and imagines how upset he must be that he has to do hair as well, possibly even makeup.

She puts on a gray velvet dress, careful not to mess up her face or hair, and she is done. Sansa walks out of her room, where she had been getting ready, and walks down to the living room where the host of Winterfell News sits on an armchair, her brown hair falling on her shoulder as she organizes a stack of papers on her lap.

Jon is already there. He is wearing a blazer with a blue sweater underneath it and his hair is brushed back, his beard cut till it was near his face. He looks clean and powerful, like a professor from a movie. Sansa doesn’t understand the effect that such an image has on her, but she knows if she weren’t heavily pregnant with clear orders to stay away from sexual activities, she’d be jumping on him as soon as everyone left.

“Sansa, hello,” the host says, standing up, “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Wynafryd Manderly, I’ll be conducting the interview tonight.”

She offers a hand and Sansa shakes it, before sitting in another armchair offered by an assistant. Jon holds her hand, kissing the back of it.

People run around her, setting up lights, placing microphones on her dress, getting the cameras ready and an hour has passed before they can start filming.

“So, tell us a little bit about yourselves,” Wynafryd starts, “How did you two meet?”

Sansa smiles. It’s one of her favorite stories, “We met in college. I was twenty, Jon was twenty-two. He came to my work every day for an entire summer until one day I just had enough and asked him out.” Jon laughs, certainly fondly remembering that fateful time, “Four years later, we got married.” Sansa pauses and takes a deep breath. "We struggled with infertility for our entire marriage, basically. We both wanted a large family, so it made sense for us to start trying as soon as we were wed…" Sansa's voice breaks and tears fills her eyes. "It was so hard because it was something that I wanted so much and to have it not work for so many years certainly drove both of us to our limit." Jon tightens his hold on her hand, telling her that he is there, that he is supporting her. "We suffered two miscarriages and one stillbirth… I'm sorry." Her tears are flowing freely now, streaming down her face as she remembers her lost children, born too early, born dead. She touches her star necklace. _Dead, but never forgotten._

"It's okay," Wynafryd says and someone hands Sansa a tissue, though she can't see who, "I understand how that must be hard for you. We'll change the subject."

Sansa nods and holds Jon's hand, tighter and tighter, but he doesn't complain.

They talk for hours, answering questions and telling their story. Sansa holds up a picture of the ultrasound, pointing to Amma's nose and Brandon's foot. It doesn't take long for the elephant in the room to be acknowledged and Wynafryd turns to Jon, closing her hands on her lap.

"Jon, the entire country is watching your feud with your father and his family," she starts, "We want answers. Why don't you tell us your side of the story?"

Jon sighs and she almost expects him to refuse outright, but starts talking, "My father and I have a complicated relationship. We have had our differences over the years and that makes me believes it is for the best that my children have no contact with him once they are born, for their own sake."

Wynafryd nods, closing her eyes ever so slightly.

"I understand," she says, "As a father, you only want the best for them. But why is that? What happened between you and Rhaegar that made you so nervous about him?"

Jon licks his lips and he tightens his hold on her hand, "He is a strange man. They say Targaryens are fire made flesh, but my father is cold. He uses everyone around him for his own interests. Rhaegar maintains a facade of a happy family for the newspapers, but the truth is that his daughter is addicted to drugs and has been in and out of rehabs for the past ten years and his son has died of a car accident that he caused it himself by drinking and driving. He only wants my children to further enhance his own power, to continue the family name with heirs that he can control and…" Jon pauses, licking his chapped lips and taking a deep breath. "He is incapable of loving anyone, but himself. My children deserve better than to have such a man as a grandfather and, though I can not change the past, I can influence the future and limit as much as possible their contact with him. I can and I will."

Wynafryd blinks, but she says nothing, shocked by Jon's response. No one talks in the room as they absorb his words, processing what he has just said about the most powerful man in Westeros.

Sansa looks at her husband and wonders what that will cost them.

* * *

It's midday and Sansa still hasn't left the house.

She's wearing a gray dress and Jon's Birkenstocks since all of her other shoes don't fit her anymore. Lyanna has been gone for almost an hour now, after deciding to take the dogs for a walk in a nearby park, and Sansa is doing fine on her own, binge watching season thirteen of Keeping Up with the Lannisters.

It's her last day at home before she'll be admitted to the hospital where she is expected to remain in strict bed rest until she delivers. Sansa can't say whether she's excited or nervous for that.

While she is happy to finally have those babies and be a mother, Sansa knows that they would face many difficulties as soon as they left her uterus. A pediatrician had explained to her in clear words about what could happen. The children could have problems in every single one of their systems, they could have bleedings inside their tiny brains, they could face developmental problems for their entire lives and so many other things.

"But if you see a twenty five week baby and think that they don't stand a chance, then they won't," she said, "But if you think that they show promise, the outcome can be very different."

Having these babies is very risky, not just to them but to herself as well. But Sansa will do it. She'll survive and bring all five of them home.

She strokes her belly and the doorbell rings.

Sansa gets up, putting her bowl of popcorn atop the couch, and walks to the entrance hall, grabbing the keys before she gets to the door.

A man wearing a blue uniform is there, holding a clipboard. His eyes go immediately to her bump, while hers go the heavy box set near his feet.

"Delivery for Sansa Snow?" he asks, recomposing himself.

"I'm she," Sansa answers.

"Sign here, ma'am," he says, handing her the clipboard. Sansa signs and he leaves, forcing her to deal with the box without exerting herself.

She pushes it with her feet, dragging the heavy to the living room where she leaves it, before going to the kitchen and grabbing a pair of scissors to open it.

Sansa doesn't know what she expected. Jon had ordered parenting books for them, but they would only arrive next week and she can't think of any surprise gifts that her family might have sent, though her father has a penchant for sending things to his children without warning. Maybe he bought toys or furniture for them.

But when she opens the box, toys or furniture is not what she finds in them.

Five dragon eggs are laying on a sea of orange packaging peanuts, each one more beautiful than anything she has ever seen in her entire life. They are scaly, and dust has accumulated in the indentions, but Sansa can see that they have been well cared for over the years. One egg is black and scarlet, shining like a metal on the light; one is a deep green and its scales have a bronze tinge to it; a pale egg, streaked with gold strikes her eyes; one is red and gold, more precious than a thousand rubies and the last one is silver and blue, the smallest out of all the them.

The babies move around inside her, kicking and stretching, as if being called by the fossilized dragon eggs, and a sense of dread settles on Sansa's chest.

Her father had once told her that the old Targaryens would place an egg inside a newborn's crib and if a healthy dragon hatched, it meant that the child was a true Targaryen from the blood of Old Valyria.

Rhaegar had this sent to her, she knows. It's both a statement and a warning.

Sansa takes a step back, wanting to set as much distance between her and the box. She'll leave it there, she decides, walking back to the couch, so Jon can see it for himself when he arrives and choose what they'll do with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I planned this chapter to end with the babies being born but I think it would be much harder to transition from Sansa receiving the eggs to them being born, so I made the decision to end it here.
> 
> We will have a sequel, so don't worry!!!!
> 
> Also, this story is through a direction I didn't plan and I'm living for it.


End file.
